Giiinr  OF 

.CoCEISIRnAN 


THE 
CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 


THE  BORZOI 
SPANISH  TRANSLATIONS 

I    THE  CABIN  (LA  BARRACA) 
By  V.  Blasco  Ibáñez 

II    THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 
By  Pio  Baroja 

III     MARTIN  RIVAS 
By  Alberto  Blest-Gana 

Othtr  vtlum$s  in  frtparathn 

'i 

COPYRIGHT,  1917.  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 

PuHishtd  Otfbtr,  1917 


PXIMTID   IN    THI   UMITKD   8TATK8   OF  AMKKICA 


INTRODUCTION 


I'm 


In  San  Sebastián,  a  beautiful  watering  place  on  the 
northern  coast  of  Guipúzcoa,  Spain,  Don  Pío  Baroja  y 
ÍNessi  was  born  on  the  28th  day  of  December,  ¿872. 
There,  wandering  among  the  foothills  of  the  Pyrenees, 
listening  to  the  talk  of  the  hardy  Basque  peasants,  play- 
ing on  the  beautiful  crescent  of  the  playa,  sailing  about 
the  pretty  land-locked  harbour,  he  spent  his  childhood. 
In  those  early  days  he  became  thoroughly  conversant 
with  the  Basque  tongue — that  mysterious  and  impossibly 
difficult  language  of  whose  true  origin  students  are  still 
in  doubt. 

His  father  was  Don  Serafín  Baroja.  Born  in  San 
Sebastián  in  1840,  Don  Serafín  was  a  well  known  min- 
ing engineer,  and  enjoyed  no  small  amount  of  fame  as 
a  writer.  As  far  as  literature  is  concerned,  he  is  per- 
haps best  known  for  his  songs  and  ballads  written  in 
the  Basque  tongue.  He  composed  the  libretto  of  the  first 
Basque  opera  ever  produced,  the  music  of  which  was 
by  Santesteban.  He  is  said  to  have  been  responsible  for 
the  libretto  of  one  other  opera — a  Spanish  one. 

His  son,  Don  Pío,  decided  to  take  up  the  study  of 
medicine,  and  he  went  to  Valencia  for  that  purpose. 
He  received  his  doctorate  in  1893,  when  he  was  but 
twenty-one  years  of  age. 

He  practised  his  profession  in  Cestona,  in  the  Province 
of  Guipúzcoa.     Life  in  that  small,  provincial  town  proved 

1 

37022rJ 


INTRODUCTION 


very  dull  indeed,  and  he  decided  that  the  medical  pro- 
fession was  not  his  proper  sphere.  After  two  years  in 
Cestona,  he  moved  to  Madrid.  There  he  tried  his  hand 
at  several  kinds  of  business.  He  even  set  up  a  bakery 
in  partnership  with  his  brother  Ricardo,  a  painter  and 
engraver  of  no  mean  ability!  We  do  not  hear  of  his 
return  to  the  practice  of  medicine.  Evidently  he  had 
proved  to  his  own  satisfaction  that  he  was  not  suited  to 
it. 

After  he  had  failed  in  several  attempts  at  business, 
he  began  writing  for  the  newspapers.  He  succeeded  in 
obtaining  positions  on  El  Pais,  El  Imparcial,  and  El 
Gloho.  His  success  in  this  line  of  work  inspired  him  to 
further  effort,  and,  from  that  time  on  (1900),  he  de- 
voted himself  entirely  to  literature. 

His  first  published  work  was  a  collection  of  short 
stories,  or  sketches,  entitled  Vidas  Sombrías.  Among 
them  are  some  exquisite  pictures  of  Basque  life.  This 
volume  was  closely  followed  by  a  novel.  La  casa  de  Aiz- 
gorri.  These  two  books  scarcely  caused  a  ripple  in  the 
literary  circles  of  the  Cortes.  Certainly,  Baroja  cannot 
claim  to  have  sprung  into  fame  over  night!  His  next 
attempt  was  a  humorous  novel  which  he  called  Aventuras, 
inventos  y  mixtificaciones  de  Silvestre  Paradox.  It  was 
scarcely  more  successful  than  the  first  two. 

His  next  book,  Camino  de  perfección,  was  character- 
ized as  *'a  book  of  apparently  sane  tendencies"!  From 
that  time  on,  he  became  a  recognized  figure  in  the  Span- 
ish literature  of  the  day.  Idilios  vascos  appeared  that 
same  year,  and  in  1903  he  produced  El  mayorazgo  de 
Lábraz,  a  novel  that  has  been  compared  most  favourably 
(by  Spanish  critics)  with  the  best  of  contemporary  nov- 
els both  in  Spain  and  abroad.  ^ 


INTRODUCTION 


In  all  lists  of  the  works  of  Pío  Baroja,  most  of  his 
novels  are  divided  into  trilogies.  For  the  sake  of  con- 
venience, I  shall  follow  the  same  plan,  without  any  at- 
tempt at  chronological  order: 

Tierra  vasca  {Basque  Country)  :  La  casa  de  Aizgorri; 
El  mayorazgo  de  Lahraz;  Zalacaín,  el  aventurero. 

La  vida  fantástica  (Life  Fantastic) :  Camino  de  per- 
fección; Inventos,  aventuras  y  mixtificaciones  de  Silves- 
tre Paradox;  Paradox,  rey. 

La  Baza  (Race)  :  La  dama  errante;  La  ciudad  de  la 
niebla;  El  árbol  de  la  ciencia. 

La  lucha  por  la  vida  {The  Struggle  for  Life)  :  La 
busca;  Mala  hierba;  Aurora  roja.  (In  this  trilogy,  Don 
Pío  evinces  a  ''spirit  of  opposition  to  the  present  social 
organization  and  the  prejudices  that  embitter  life  and 
kill  human  spontaneity.") 

El  pasado  {The  Past)  :  La  feria  de  los  discretos;  Los 
últimos  románticos;  Las  tragedias  grotescas. 

Las  ciudades  {Cities)  :  César  o  nada,  El  mundo  es 
asi  (incomplete). 

El  mar  {The  Sea)  :  Las  inquietudes  de  Shanti  Andia 
(incomplete).  _^ 

Besides  these  trilogies,  Baroja  has  written  several  nov-*^ 
els  under  the  general  title  of  Memorias  de  un  hombre  de 
acción  {Memoirs  of  a  Man  of  Action),  long  winded  af-/ 
fairs  in  which  any  real  action  is  sadly  lacking. 

In  addition  to  his  novels,  he  has  published  several  vol- 
umes of  essays,  and  not  a  little  verse.  Few  of  his  works 
have  been  translated  into  other  languages;  none  (except 
the  present  novel)  into  English. 

Personally,  Señor  Baroja  is  somewhat  of  an  enigma, 
a  mystery.  He  is  extremely  modest  and  retiring,  and 
seldom  appears  prominently  before  the  public.     It  has 


4  INTRODUCTION 

been  said  of  him  that,  although  he  apparently  knows 
what  every  one  else  thinks  and  believes,  there  is  no  one 
who  can  say  for  sure  just  what  his  thoughts  and  beliefs 
are.  He  is  an  ardent,  pious  Catholic,  with  very  ad- 
vanced ideas.  One  is  led  to  believe  from,  some  of  his 
works  that  he  is  an  ardent  Republican.  Some  even  go 
so  far  as  to  assert  that  he  entertains  strong  anarchistic 
views.  But,  just  as  we  have  about  made  up  our  minds 
as  to  his  political  creed,  along  comes  a  novel  like  La  feria 
de  los  discretos,  in  which  he  ridicules  Republicans  and 
Anarchists,  and  we  are  forced  to  reject  our  conception. 

While  his  name  is  often  coupled  with  that  of  V.  Blasco 
Ibáñez,  there  is  more  difference  than  similarity  between 
the  two,  especially  in  their  style.  The  Valencian  spreads 
his  canvas  with  the  broad,  brilliant,  impressionistic 
strokes  of  a  Sorolla,  while  Baroja  employs  the  more  sub- 
tle and  delicate  methods  of  a  Zuloaga.  He  is  a  stylist. 
His  vocabulary  is  remarkably  extensive,  and  he  employs 
it  in  a  masterly  fashion — not  as  one  who  would  over- 
whelm his  readers  with  a  flood  of  ponderous  verbiage, 
but  rather  as  one  who,  knowing  all  the  delicate  shades 
and  nuances  of  his  language,  employs  words  as  an  artist 
uses  his  colours — to  produce  the  proper  effects.  His 
power  of  description  is  marvellous.  In  a  sentence,  some- 
times in  a  single  phrase,  he  brings  a  character  or  g/cene 
vividly  before  our  mental  yision.  The  chapter  headed 
*  *  Spring, ' '  in  The  City  of  the  Discreet,  fairly  aches  with 
the  drowsiness  of  an  Andalusian  Spring. 
^^HDa  feria  de  los  discretos  has  been  chosen  for  this  series 
mainly  on  account  of  its  Spanish  atmosphere.  Though 
not  his  best  novel,  it  is  perhaps'the  best  one  with  which 
to  introduce  him  to  the  English  reading  public.  Above 
all  else,  it  demonstrates  his  powers  of  description,  and 


INTRODUCTION 


his  subtle,  quaint  humour.  It  is  not  my  purpose  in  this 
paper  to  write  a  criticism  of  this  novel.  I  shall  leave 
that  to  abler  pens.  I  might  say,  however,  that  in  this 
work,  Pío  Baroja  has  no  special  message  to  convey,  no 
propaganda.  His  purpose  here  is  essentially  to  enter- 
tain, to  amuse.  One  suspects  that  he  derived  no  little 
pleasure  himself  from  its  creation.  It  is  said  that  its 
appearance  aroused  a  storm  of  protests  from  Republi- 
cans on  account  of  the  sorry  light  into  which  he  put  them. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  the  details  of  his  description  of  Cor- 
dova and  its  environs  are  accurate  in  the  extreme.  The 
City  of  the  Discreet  might  almost  serve  as  a  guide  book 
to  that  ancient  city.  One  can  follow  Quentin's  adven- 
tures on  any  accurate  map  of  Cordova.  Of  his  knowl- 
edge of  Masonry,  one  cannot  speak  quite  so  highly ! 

J.  S.  F.,  Jr. 
Cambridge,  Mass, 
October,  1917. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEK 
I 

II 

III 

IV 

V 
VI 


A  conversation  on  the  train 

0,  oriental,  romantic  city! 

Infancy:  sombre  vestibule  of  life 

Blue  eyes,  black  eyes 

Noble  and  ancient  ancestral  homes! 

Concerning  an  adventure  of  Quentin's  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  El  Potro 

VII    In  which  is  told  the  history  of  a  tavern  on 


PAGE 

9 
.25 
33 
43 
54 

65 


Sierra  Morena                                                        82 

VIII 

A  fight  in  an  olive  orchard                                      95 

.  IX 

In   which    Señor   S  abadía   abuses   words   and 

• 

wine                                                                        105 

X 

Don  Gil  finishes  his  story                                      114 

XI 

More   incomprehensible   than   the  heart   of   a 

grown  woman,  is  that  of  a  girl-child               124 

XII 

In  search  of  a  jewel-case                                       132 

XIII 

A  picnic  and  a  ride                                                145 

XIV 

Spring                                                                     156 

XV 

Where  his  beautiful  expectations  went!              163. 

XVI 

The  man   of   action   begins   to   make   himself 

known                                                                       171 

XVII 

"I  am  a  little  Catüine"                                          182 

XVIII 

The  tavern  in  the  Calle  del  Bodegoncillo            193 

XIX 

The  pleasant  ironies  of  reality                             207 

8 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 
XX 

Philosophers  without  realiziug 

the  fact 

PAGE 
211 

XXI 

Juan  talks 

222 

XXII 

Sticks,  shots,  and  stones 

227 

XXIII 

Pursuit  and  escape 

233 

XXIV 

The  victim  of  a  feuilleton 

245 

XXV 

An  abduction  is  prepared 

•^ 

250 

XXVI 

Explanations 

261 

XXVII 

In  which  a  countess,  a  professional  bandit, 
a  man  of  action  have  a  talk 

and 

273 

XXVIII 

The  mason's  message 

285 

XXIX 

A  conference 

292 

XXX 

Projects 

305 

XXXI 

Night  and  day 

314 

XXXII 

The  city  of  the  discreet 

322 

XXXIII 

The  departure 

332 

XXXIV 

The  end 

343 

THE  CITY  OF  THE 
DISCREET 

CHAPTER  I 

A   CONVERSATION   ON   THE   TRAIN 

OÜENTIN  awoke,  opened  his  eyes,  looked  about 
him,  and  exclaimed  between  his  yawns: 
''We  micst  be  in  Andalusia  now." 

The  second-class  coach  was  occupied  by  six  persons. 
Opposite  Quentin,  a  distin^ished-looking  Frenchman, 
corpulent,  clean-shaven,  and  with  a  red  ribbon  in  his 
buttonhole,  was  showing  a  magazine  to  a  countryman 
in  the  garb  of  a  wealthy  cattle  owner,  and  was  gra- 
ciously explaining  the  meanings  of  the  illustrations  to 
him. 

The  countryman  listened  to  his  explanations  smiling 
mischievously,  mumbling  an  occasional  aside  to  himself 
in  an  undertone: 

''What  a  simpleton." 

Leaning  against  the  shoulder  of  the  Frenchman,  dozed 
his  wife — a  faded  woman  with  a  freakish  hat,  ruddy 
cheeks,  and  large  hands  clutching  a  portfolio.  The  other 
persons  were  a  bronze-coloured  priest  wrapped  in  a  cloak, 
and  two  recently-married  Andalusians  who  were  whisper- 
ing the  sweetest  of  sweet  nothings  to  each  other, 

9 


io':-    THE.;  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

**But  haven't  we  reached  Andalusia  yet?"  Quentin 
again  inquired  impatiently. 

''Oh,  yes!"  replied  the  Frenchman.  **The  next  sta- 
tion is  Baeza." 

'  *  Baeza ! — Impossible ! " 

''It  i^,  never-the-less — It  is/^  insisted  the  Frenchman, 
rolling  his  r's  in  the  back  of  his  throat.  "I  have  been 
counting  the  stations." 

Quentin  arose,  his  hands  thrust  into  his  overcoat. 
The  rain  beat  incessantly  against  the  coach  windows 
which  were  blurred  by  the  moisture. 

' '  I  don 't  know  my  own  coi^try, ' '  he  exclaimed  aloud ; 
and  to  see  it  better  he  op^ed  the  window  and  looked 
out. 

The  train  was  passing  through  a  ruddy  country  spotted 
here  and  there  with  pools  of  rainwater.  In  the  distance, 
small,  low  hills,  shadowed  by  shrubs  and  thickets  raised 
themselves  into  the  cold,  damp  air. 

**What  weather!"  he  exclaimed  in  disgust,  as  he  closed 
the  window.     ' '  This  is  no  land  of  mine ! ' ' 

"Are  you  a  Spaniard?"  inquired  the  Frenchman. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  would  have  taken  you  for  an  Englishman." 

"I  have  just  left  England,  where  I  spent  eight  years." 

"Are  you  from  Andalusia?" 

"From  Cordova." 

The  Frenchman  and  his  wife,  who  had  awakened, 
studied  Quentin.  Surely  his  looks  were  not  Spanish. 
Tall,  stout,  and  clean-shaven,  with  a  good  complexion  and 
brown  hair,  enveloped  in  a  grey  overcoat,  and  with  a 
cap  on  his  head;  he  looked  like  a  young  Englishman 
sent  by  his  parents  to  tour  the  continent.  He  had  a 
strong  nose,  thick  lips,  and  the  expression  of  a  dignified 


A  CONVERSATION  ON  THE  TRAIN        11 

and  serious  young  man  which  a  roguish,  mischievous,  and 
gipsy-like  smile  completely  unmasked. 

''My  wife  and  I  are  going  to  Cordova,"  remarked  the 
Frenchman  as  he  pocketed  his  magazine. 

Quentin  bowed. 

''It  must  be  a  most  interesting  city — is  it  not?" 

"Indeed  it  is!" 

"Charming  women  with  silk  dresses  ...  on  the  bal- 
conies all  day." 

"No;nota¿¿day." 

"And  with  cigarettes  in  their  mouths,  eh?" 

"No." 

"Ah!     Don't  Spanish  women  smoke?" 

"Much  less  than  French  women." 

"French  women  do  not  smoke,  sir,"  said  the  woman 
somewhat  indignantly. 

"  Oh !  I  've  seen  them  in  Paris ! ' '  exclaimed  Quentin. 
"But  you  won't  see  any  of  them  smoking  in  Cordova. 
You  French  people  don't  know  us.  You  believe  that 
all  we  Spaniards  are  toreadors,  but  it  is  not  so." 

"Ah!  No,  no!  Pardon  me!"  replied  the  French- 
man, "we  are  very  well  acquainted  with  Spain.  There 
are  two  Spains:  one,  which  is  that  of  the  South,  is 
Theophile  Gautier's;  the  other,  which  is  that  of  Hemani, 
is  Victor  Hugo's.  But  perhaps  you  don't  know  that 
Hemani  is  a  Spanish  city?" 

^  "Yes,  I  know  the  place,"  said  Quentin  with  aplomb, 
though  never  in  his  life  had  he  heard  any  one  mention 
the  name  of  the  tiny  Basque  village. 

"A  great  city." 

"Indeed  it  is!" 

Having  made  this  remark,  Quentin  lit  a  cigarette, 
passed  his  hand  along  the  blurred  windowpane  until  he 


12  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

had  made  it  transparent,  and  began  to  hum  to  him- 
self as  he  contemplated  the  landscape.  The  humid,  rainy- 
weather  had  saddened  the  deserted  fields.  As  far  as 
one  could  see  there  were  no  hamlets,  no  villages — only 
here  and  there  a  dark  farmhouse  in  the  distance. 

They  passed  abandoned  stations,  crossed  huge  olive 
groves  with  trees  planted  in  rows  in  great  squares  on 
the  ruddy  hillsides.  The  train  approached  a  broad  and 
muddy  river. 

**The  Guadalquivir?"  inquired  the  Frenchman. 
^  **I  don't  know,"  replied  Quentin  absently.  Then, 
doubtless,  this  confession  of  ignorance  seemed  ill-advised, 
for  he  looked  at  the  river  as  if  he  expected  it  to  tell  him 
its  name,  and  added :  '  *  It  is  a  tributary  of  the  Guadal- 
quivir. '  * 

**Ah!    And  what  is  its  name?" 

'*I  don't  remember.     I  don't  believe  it  has  any." 

The  rain  increased  in  violence.  The  country  was 
slowly  being  converted  into  a  mudhole.  The  older  leaves 
of  the  wet  olive  trees  shone  a  dark  broT\TQ ;  the  new  ones 
glistened  like  metal.  As  the  train  slackened  its  speed, 
the  rain  seemed  to  grow  more  intense.  One  could  hear 
the  patter  of  the  drops  on  the  roof  of  the  coach,  and  the 
water  slid  along  the  windows  in  broad  gleaming  bands. 

At  one  of  the  stations,  three  husky  young  men  climbed 
into  the  coach.  Each  wore  a  shawl,  a  broad-brimmed 
hat,  a  black  sash,  and  a  huge  silver  chain  across  his  vest. 
They  never  ceased  for  an  instant  talking  about  mills, 
horses,  women,  gambling,  and  bulls. 

** Those  gentlemen,"  asked  the  Frenchman  in  an  un- 
dertone, as  he  leaned  over  to  Quentin,  **What  are  they — 
toreadors?" 

**No, — rich  folk  from  hereabouts." 


A  CONVERSATION  ON  THE  TRAIN        18 

''Hidalgos,  eh?" 

''Pst!    You  shall  see.' ^ 

''They  are  talking  a  lot  about  gambling.  One  gam- 
bles a  great  deal  in  Andalusia,  doesn  't  one  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"I  have  heard  some  one  say,  that  once  a  hidalgo  was 
riding  along  on  horseback,  when  he  met  a  beggar.  The 
horseman  tossed  him  a  silver  coin,  but  the  beggar,  not 
wishing  to  accept  it  drew  a  pack  of  cards  from  among 
his  rags  and  proposed  a  game  to  the  hidalgo.  He  won 
the  horse." 

"Ha!     Ha!     Ha!"  laughed  Quentin  boisterously. 

"But  isn't  it  true?"  asked  the  Frenchman  somewhat 
piqued. 

"Perhaps — perhaps  it  is." 

"What  a  simpleton!"  murmured  the  countryman  to 
himself. 

"Isn't  it  true  either,  that  all  beggars  have  the  right 
to  use  the  'Don'?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  that's  true  enough,"  answered  Quentin, 
smiling  his  gipsy  smile. 

The  three  husky  youths  in  the  shawls  got  off  at  the 
next  station  to  Cordova.  The  sky  cleared  for  an  instant : 
up  and  down  the  platform  walked  men  with  broad- 
brimmed  Andalusian  hats,  young  women  with  flowers  in 
their  hair,  old  women  with  huge,  red  umbrellas  .  .  . 

"And  those  young  men  who  just  went  by,"  asked 
the  Frenchman,  full  of  curiosity  about  everything,  ' '  each 
one  carries  his  knife,  eh?" 

"Oh,  yes! — Probably,"  said  Quentin,  unconsciously 
imitating  his  interlocutor's  manner  of  speech. 

' '  The  knives  they  carry  are  very  large  ? ' ' 

"The  knives!    Yes,  very  large." 


14  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

"What  might  their  dimensions  be?'' 

"Two  or  three  spans,"  asserted  Quentin,  to  whom  a 
span  more  or  less  mattered  very  little. 

"And  is  it  hard  to  manage  that  terrible  weapon?" 

"It  has  its  difficulties." 

"Do  you  know  how?" 

"Naturally.  But  the  really  difficult  thing  is  to  hit 
a  mark  with  a  knife  at  a  distance  of  twenty  or  thirty 
metres. ' ' 

"How  do  they  do  that?" 

"Why,  there's  nothing  much  to  it.  You  place  the 
knife  like  this,"  and  Quentin  assumed  that  he  had 
placed  one  in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  '  *  and  then  you  throw 
it  with  all  your  might.  The  knife  flies  like  an  arrow, 
and  sticks  wherever  you  wish." 

"How  horrible!" 

"That  is  what  we  call  'painting  a  jabeque  [a  facial 
wound].'  " 

"A  ca — a  cha — a  what?" 

^^  Jabeque.'^ 

"  It  is  truly  extraordinary, ' '  said  the  Frenchman,  after 
attempting  in  vain  to  pronounce  the  guttural.  "You 
have  doubtless  killed  bulls  also  ? ' ' 

"Oh!  yes,  indeed." 

"But  you  are  very  young." 

"Twenty-two." 

"Didn't  you  tell  me  that  you  have  been  in  England 
for  eight  years?" 

"Yes." 

"So  you  killed  bulls  when  you  were  fourteen?" 

"No  .  .  .  in  my  vacations." 

"Ah!    You  came  from  England  just  for  that?" 

"Yes — for  that,  and  to  see  my  sweetheart  " 


A  CONVERSATION  ON  THE  TRAIN       16 

The  Frenchwoman  smiled,  and  her  husband  said : 
*' Weren't  you  afraid?'' 

' '  Afraid  of  which  ? — The  bulls,  or  my  sweetheart  ? ' ' 
' '  Of  both ! ' '  exclaimed  the  Frenchman,  laughing  heart- 

ily. 

'  *  What  a  simpleton ! ' '  reiterated  the  countryman,  smil- 
ing, and  looking  at  him  as  he  would  at  a  child. 

"All  you  have  to  do  with  women  and  bulls  to  under- 
stand them, ' '  said  Quentin,  with  the  air  of  a  consummate 
connoisseur,  "is  to  know  them.  If  the  bull  attacks  you 
on  the  right,  just  step  to  the  left,  or  vice  versa/' 

"And  if  you  don't  have  time  to  do  that?"  questioned 
the  Frenchman  rather  anxiously. 

"Then  you  may  count  yourself  among  the  departed, 
and  beg  them  to  say  a  few  masses  for  the  salvation  of 
your  soul." 

"It  is  frightful —  And  the  ladies  are  very  enthusi- 
astic over  a  good  toreador,  eh?" 

"Of  course — on  account  of  the  profession." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  *on  account  of  the  pro- 
fession'?" 

"Don't  the  ladies  bully  us?" 

"That's  true,"  said  the  countryman,  smiling.      .--    "^ 

"And  he  who  fights  best,"  continued  the  Frenchman, 
"will  have  the  doors  of  society  opened  to  him?" 

"Of  course." 
"    "What  a  strange  country!" 

"Pardon  me,"  asked  his  wife,  "but  is  it  true  that  if  a 
girl  deceives  her  lover,  he  always  kills  her?" 

"No,  not  always — sometimes — but  he  is  not  obliged 
to." 

"And  you — ^have  you  killed  a  sweetheart?"  she  in- 
quired, consumed  with  curiosity. 


16  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

**I!" — and  Quentin  hesitated  as  one  loath  to  confess 
—''Not  1.'^ 

*'Ah! — ^Yes,  yes!'*  insisted  the  Frenchwoman,  "you 
have  killed  a  sweetheart.     One  can  see  it  in  your  face." 

''My  dear/'  said  her  husband,  "do  not  press  him: 
the  Spaniards  are  too  noble  to  talk  about  some  things." 

Quentin  looked  at  the  Frenchman  and  winked  his 
eye  confidentially,  giving  him  to  understand  that  he  had 
divined  the  true  cause  of  his  reserve.  Then  he  feigned 
a  melancholy  air  to  conceal  the  joy  this  farce  afforded 
him.  After  that,  he  diverted  himself  by  looking  through 
the  window. 

"What  a  bore  this  weather  is,"  he  murmured. 

He  had  always  pictured  his  arrival  at  Cordova  as  tak- 
ing place  on  a  glorious  day  of  golden  sunshine,  and  in- 
stead, he  was  encountering  despicable  weather,  damp, 
ugly,  and  sad. 

"I  suppose  the  same  thing  will  happen  to  everything 
I  have  planned.  Nothing  turns  out  as  you  think  it  will. 
That,  according  to  my  schoolmate  Harris,  is  an  advan- 
tage.    I'm  not  so  sure.     It  is  a  matter  for  discussion." 

This  memory  of  his  schoolmate  made  him  think  of 
Eton  school. 

"I  wonder  what  they  are  doing  there  now?" 

Absorbed  in  his  memories,  he  continued  to  look  out 
the  window.  As  the  train  advanced,  the  country  be- 
came more  cultivated.  Well-shaped  horses  with  long 
tails  were  grazing  in  the  pastures. 

The  travellers  commenced  to  prepare  their  luggage  for 
a  quick  descent  from  the  train :  Quentin  put  on  his  l^iat, 
stuffed  his  cap  into  his  pocket,  and  placed  his  bag  on  the 
seat. 

"Sir,"  said  the  Frenchman  to  him  quickly,  "I  thank 


A  CONVERSATION  ON  THE  TRAIN        17 

you  for  the  information  with  which  you  have  supplied 
me.  I  am  Jules  Matignon,  professor  of  Spanish  in 
Paris.  I  believe  we  shall  see  each  other  again  in  Cor- 
dova.'^ 

''My  name  is  Quentin  Garcia  Roelas." 

They  shook  hands,  and  waited  for  the  train  to  stop: 
it  was  already  slowing  up  as  it  neared  the  Cordova 
station. 

They  arrived;  Quentin  got  off  quickly,  and  crossed 
the  platform,  pursued  by  four  or  five  porters.  Con- 
fronting one  of  these  who  had  a  red  handkerchief  on  his 
head,  and  handing  him  his  bag  and  check,  he  ordered 
him  to  take  them  to  his  house. 

''To  the  Calle  de  la  Zapatería,"  he  said.  ''To  the 
store  where  they  sell  South  American  comestibles.  Do 
you  know  where  it  is?" 

"The  house  of  Don  Eafaéf     Of  course." 

"Good.'-? 

This  done,  Quentin  opened  his  umbrella,  and  began 
to  make  his  way  toward  the  centre  of  the  city. 

"It  seems  as  though  I  hadn't  crossed  the  Channel  at 
all,"  he  said  to  himself,  "but  were  walking  along  one 
of  those  roads  near  the  school.  The  same  grey  sky,  the 
same  mud,  the  same  rain.  Now  I  am  about  to  see  the 
parks  and  the  river — " 

But  no — what  he  saw  was  the  orange  trees  on  the 
"Victoria,  laden  with  golden  fruit  glistening  with  rain- 
drops. 

"I'm  beginning  to  be  convinced  that  I  am  in  Cor- 
dova," murmured  Quentin,  and  he  entered  the  Paseo 
del  Gran  Capitán,  followed  the  Calle  de  Gondomar  as 
far  as  Las  Tendillas,  whence,  as  easily  as  if  he  had 
passed  through  the  streets  but  yesterday,  he  reached 


18  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

his  house.  He  scarcely  recognized  it  at  first  glance: 
the  store  no  longer  occupied  two  windows  as  before,  but 
the  whole  front  of  the  house.  The  doors  were  covered 
with  zinc  plates:  only  one  of  them  having  a  window 
through  which  the  interior  could  be  seen  full  of  sacks 
piled  in  rows. 

Quentin  mounted  to  the  main  floor  and  knocked  sev- 
eral times:  the  door  was  opened  to  him,  and  he  en- 
tered. 

''Here  I  am!''  he  shouted,  as  he  traversed  a  dark 
corridor.  A  door  was  heard  to  open,  and  the  boy  felt 
himself  hugged  and  kissed  again  and  again. 

''Quentin!" 

"Mother!    But  I  can't  see  you  in  all  this  darkness." 

"Come" — and  his  mother,  with  her  arms  about  him, 
led  him  into  a  room.  Bringing  him  to  the  light  of  a 
balcony  window,  she  exclaimed:  "How  tall  you  are, 
my  son!     How  tall,  and  how  strong!" 

"I've  become  a  regular  barbarian." 

His  mother  embraced  him  again. 

"Have  you  been  well?  But  you  will  soon  tell  us  all 
about  it.  Are  you  hungry?  Do  you  want  something 
to  drink? — A  cup  of  chocolate?" 

"No,  no — none  of  your  chocolate.  Something  a  bit 
more  solid:  ham,  eggs  ...  I'm  ferociously  hungry." 

' '  Good !     I  '11  tell  them  to  get  your  breakfast  ready. ' ' 

"Is  everybody  well?" 

"Everybody.     Come  and  see  them." 

They  followed  a  narrow  corridor  and  entered  a  room 
where  two  boys,  aged  fifteen  and  twelve  respectively, 
had  just  finished  dressing.  Quentin  embraced  them 
none  too  effusively,  and  from  the  larger  room  they  went 


A  CONVERSATION  ON  THE  TRAIN        19 

into  a  bedroom,  where  a  little  girl  between  eight  and 
nine  years  old  was  sleeping  in  a  huge  bed. 

''Is  that  Dolores?"  asked  Quentin. 

''Yes." 

"The  last  time  I  saw  her  she  was  a  tiny  little  thing. 
How  pretty  she  is!" 

The  child  awoke,  and  seeing  a  stranger  before  her,  be- 
came frightened. 

' '  But  it 's  your  brother  Quentin,  who  has  just  arrived. ' ' 

Her  fears  immediately  allayed,  she  allowed  herself  to 
be  kissed. 

"Now  we  shall  go  and  see  your  father." 

"Very  well,"  said  Quentin  reluctantly. 

They  left  the  bedroom,  and  at  the  end  of  the  corridor, 
found  themselves  in  a  room  in  whose  doorway  swung  a 
black  screen  with  a  glass  panel. 

"Well  wait  a  moment.  He  must  have  gone  into  the 
store,"  said  his  mother,  as  she  seated  herself  upon  the 
sofa. 

Quentin  absently  examined  the  furnishings  of  the 
office:  the  large  writing-desk  full  of  little  drawers;  the 
safe  with  its  gilt  knobs ;  the  books  and  letter-press  lying 
upon  a  table  near  the  window.  Upon  the  wall  opposite 
the  screen  hung  two  large,  mud-coloured  lithographs  of 
Vesuvius  in  eruption.  Between  them  was  a  large, 
hexagonal  clock,  and  below  it,  a  "perpetual"  calendar 
of  black  cardboard,  with  three  elliptic  apertures  set  one 
above  the  other — the  upper  one  for  the  date,  the  middle 
one  for  the  month,  and  the  lower  one  for  the  year. 

Mother  and  son  waited  a  moment,  while  the  clock  meas- 
ured the  time  with  a  harsh  tick-tock.  Suddenly  the 
screen  opened,  and  a  man  entered  the  office.     He  was 


^  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

clean-shaven,  elegantly  dressed,  with  a  fnll,  pink  face, 
and  an  aristocratic  air. 

''Here  is  Quentin,"  said  his  mother. 

** Hello!"  exclaimed  the  man,  holding  out  his  hand 
to  the  youth.  *'So  you  have  arrived  without  notifying 
us  in  advance?     How  goes  it  in  England?" 

''Very  well."  dBI 

"I  suppose  you're  quite  a  man  now,  ready  to  do 
something  useful." 

"I  believe  so,"  answered  Quentin. 

"I  am  glad — I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  so  changed." 

At  this  point  an  elderly  man  entered  the  office.  He 
was  tall  and  thin,  with  a  drooping  grey  moustache.  He 
bowed  low  by  way  of  a  greeting,  but  Quentin 's  mother, 
nodding  toward  her  son,  said: 

** Don't  you  know  him.  Palomares?" 

' '  Whom,  Doña  Fuensanta  ? " 

"This  boy.     It's  Quentin." 

"Quentin!"  the  old  man  fairly  shouted.  "So  it  is! 
My  boy,  how  you  have  grown !  You  're  a  regular  giant ! 
Well,  well!  How  do  you  like  the  English?  They're  a 
bad  race,  aren't  they?  They've  done  me  many  a  bad 
turn !     When  did  the  boy  come.  Doña  Fuensanta  ? ' ' 

"This  very  minute." 

"Well — "  said  Quentin 's  father  to  Palomares. 

"Come,"  announced  his  mother,  "they  have  work  to 
do." 

"We  shall  have  a  little  more  time  to  talk  later  on 
at  the  table,"  said  his  father. 

Mother  and  son  left  the  office  and  made  their  way  to 
the  dining-room.  Quentin  sat  at  the  table  and  raven- 
ously devoured  eggs,  ham,  rolls,  a  bit  of  cheese,  and  a 
plate  of  sweets. 


A  CONVERSATION  ON  THE  TRAIN        «1 

''But  you'll  lose  your  appetite  for  dinner,"  warned 
his  mother. 

''Ca!  I  never  lose  my  appetite.  I  could  go  right 
on  eating,"  replied  Quentin.  Then,  smacking  his  lips 
over  the  wine  as  he  stuck  his  nose  into  the  glass,  he 
added:  ''What  wine,  mother!  We  didn't  drink  any- 
think  like  this  at  school." 

"No?" 

"I  should  say  not!" 

"Poor  boy!" 

Quentin,  touched,  cried: 

"I  was  lonesome,  oh,  so  lonesome  over  there  for  such 
a  long  time.  And  now  .  .  .  you  won't  love  me  as  you 
do  the  others." — 

' '  Yes,  I  shall — just  the  same.  I  've  thought  about  you 
so  much — "  and  the  mother,  again  embracing  her  son, 
wept  for  a  time  upon  his  shoulder — overcome  with  emo- 
tion. 

"Come,  come,  don't  cry  any  more,"  said  Quentin,  and 
seizing  her  by  her  slender  waist,  he  lifted  her  into  the 
air  as  easily  as  if  she  had  been  a  feather,  and  kissed  her 
upon  the  cheek. 

"What  a  brute!  How  strong  you  are!"  she  ex- 
claimed, surprised  and  pleased. 

Then  they  went  over  the  house  together.  Some  of  the 
details  demonstrated  very  clearly  the  economic  stride 
the  family  had  made:  the  hall  with  its  large  mirrors, 
marble  consoles,  and  French  hearth,  was  luxuriously 
furnished:  displayed  in  a  cabinet  in  the  dining-room, 
were  a  table-service  of  Sevres  porcelain,  and  dishes,  tea- 
pots, and  platters  of  repousse  silver. 

"This  table-service,"  said  Quentin 's  mother,  "we 
bought  for  a  song  from  a  ruined  marquis.     Every  one 


«2  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

of  the  dishes  and  platters  had  a  crown  and  the  marquis* 
initials  painted  on  it — ^but  between  the  three  girls  and 
me,  we  have  rubbed  them  all  off  with  pumice  stone.  It 
took  us  months/* 

After  seeing  the  entire  house,  mother  and  son  de- 
scended to  the  store.  Here,  the  commercial  ballast  of 
the  house  was  in  evidence:  heaped-up  piles  of  sacks  of 
all  sorts  separated  by  narrow  aisles.  The  employes  of 
the  store  came  forward  to  greet  Quentin;  then  he  and 
his  mother  reclimbed  the  stairs  and  entered  the  house. 

''Your  room  is  all  ready  for  you,"  said  his  mother. 
''We  shall  have  dinner  directly." 

Quentin  changed  his  clothes,  washed,  and  presented 
himself  in  the  dining-room,  very  much  combed  and 
brushed,  and  looking  extremely  handsome.  His  father, 
elegant  in  the  whitest  of  collars,  presided  at  the  table: 
his  mother  distributed  the  food :  the  children  were  cleaa 
and  tidy.     A  girl  in  a  white  apron  served  the  meal. 

Throughout  the  entire  meal  there  existed  a  certain 
coldness,  punctuated  by  long  and  vexatious  moments  of 
silence.  Quentin  was  furious,  and  when  the  meal  was 
finished,  he  arose  immediately  and  went  to  his  room. 

' '  They  have  forgotten  nothing  here,  *  *  he  thought.  ' '  I 
don't  believe  I  shall  be  able  to  stay  in  this  house  for  any 
length  of  time." 

His  baggage  had  been  brought  to  his  room,  so  he  de- 
voted himself  to  unpacking  his  books,  and  to  arranging 
them  in  a  bookcase.  It  was  still  raining,  and  he  had 
no  desire  to  go  out.  It  soon  grew  dark;  for  these  were 
the  shortest  days  of  the  year.  He  went  down  to  the 
store,  where  he  came  upon  Palomares,  the  old  dependent 
of  the  house. 

**How  did  you  like  England  t"  he  was  asked. 


A  CONVERSATION  ON  THE  TRAIN        23 

''Very  much.     It  is  a  great  country.'' 

''But  a  bad  race,  eh?" 

^'Ca,  man!     Better  than  ours." 

''Do  you  think  so?" 

"I  certainly  do." 

* '  Maybe  you  're  right.     Have  you  seen  the  store  1 ' ' 

"Yes,  this  morning." 

"We've  made  a  great  fight  here,  my  boy.  We  have 
worked  wonders — your  mother  most  of  all.  When  she's 
around,  I  can  laugh  at  any  other  woman,  no  matter  how 
clever  she  may  be." 

' '  Yes,  she  must  be  clever. ' ' 

"Indeed  she  is!  She  is  responsible  for  everything. 
When  I  used  to  go  into  the  office  upstairs,  and  turn  the 
screws  on  the  calendar,  I  thought  'Today  we'll  have  the 
catastrophe' — but  no,  everything  turned  out  well.  I'm 
going  upstairs  for  a  while.     Are  you  coming?" 

"No." 

Quentin  seized  an  umbrella  and  took  a  stroll  through 
the  city.  It  was  pouring  rain ;  so,  very  much  bored,  he 
soon  returned  to  the  house. 

His  mother,  Palomares,  and  all  the  children  were  play- 
ing Keno  in  the  dining-room.  They  invited  him  to  take 
part  in  the  game,  and  although  it  did  not  impress  him 
as  particularly  amusing,  he  had  no  choice  but  to  accept. 
It  was  a  source  of  much  laughter  and  shouting  when 
Quentin  failed  to  understand  the  nicknames  which 
Palomares  gave  to  the  numbers  as  he  called  them;  for 
beside  those  that  were  common  and  already  familiar  to 
him,  such  as  ".the  pretty  little  girl"  for  the  15,  he  had 
others  that  were  more  picturesque  which  he  had  to 
explain  to  Quentin.  The  2,  for  example,  was  called 
"the  little  turkey-hen";  the  11,  "the  Catalonians'  gal- 


g4  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

lows";  the  6,  **the  clothier's  rat";  the  22,  ''mother 
Irene's  turkeys";  the  17,  "the  crooked  Maoliyo.'' 
Among  the  nicknames,  were  some  that  were  surprisingly- 
fantastic;  like  the  10,  which  Palomares  designated  by- 
calling  ''Maria  Francisca,  who  goes  to  the  theatre  in 
dirty  petticoats." 

At  the  end  of  each  game,  Palomares  took  a  tray  with 
a  glass  of  water  on  it,  and  said  to  the  winner : 

"You  who  have  won  behold  your  glass  of  water  and 
your  sugar-loaf :  you  who  have  lost, ' '  and  he  pointed 
to  the  loser,  "go  whence  you  came." 

His  fun  was  hailed  with  delight  every  time  he  went 
through  the  ceremony. 

"Now  tell  us  what  you  did  in  Chile,"  said  one  of  the 
youngsters. 

"No,  no,"  said  Quentin's  mother.  "You  two  boys 
must  study  now,  and  my  little  girl  must  go  to  bed." 

They  obeyed  without  a  protest,  and  soon  after,  one 
could  hear  the  buzzing  of  the  two  boys  as  they  read  their 
lesson  aloud. 

"Well,"  said  Palomares,  "I'm  going  to  supper,"  and 
taking  his  cloak,  he  went  out  into  the  street. 

Quentin's  father  came  in,  and  they  had  supper.  The 
evening  meal  had  the  same  character  as  the  dinner.  As 
soon  as  they  had  finished  dessert,  Quentin  arose  and 
went  to  his  room. 

He  climbed  into  bed,  and  amid  the  great  confusion 
of  images  and  recollections  that  crowded  his  brain,  one 
idea  always  predominated :  that  he  was  not  going  to  be 
able  to  live  in  that  house. 


CHAPTER  II 

o,   ORIENTAL,   ROMANTIC    CITY ! 

ON  the  following  day,  Quentin  awoke  very  early. 
An  unusual  sensation  of  heat  and  dryness  pene- 
trated his  senses.  He  looked  through  the 
balcony  window.  The  delicate,  keen,  somewhat  lustre- 
less light  of  morning  glowed  in  the  street.  In  the  clear, 
pale  sky,  a  few  white  clouds  were  drifting  slowly. 

Quentin  dressed  himself  rapidly,  left  the  house  in 
which  all  were  still  sleeping,  turned  down  the  street, 
went  through  a  narrow  alley,  crossed  a  plaza,  followed  a 
street,  and  then  another  and  another,  and  soon  found 
himself  without  knowledge  as  to  his  whereabouts. 

* '  This  is  amusing, ' '  he  murmured. 

He  was  completely  at  sea.  He  did  not  even  know  on 
which  side  of  the  city  he  was. 

This  made  him  feel  very  gay ;  happily,  and  with  a  light 
heart,  thinking  of  nothing  in  particular,  but  enjoy- 
ing the  soft,  fresh  air  of  the  winter  morning,  he  con- 
tinued with  real  pleasure  to  lose  himself  in  that  laby- 
rinth of  alleys  and  passages — veritable  crevices,  shadow- 
filled  ... 

The  streets  n.arrowed  before  him,  and  then  widened 
until  they  formed  little  plazas :  they  were  full  of  sinuous 
twists;  they  traced  broken  lines  through  the  city. 
Water-spouts,  terminating  in  wide-open  dragon  mouths, 

25 


26  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

threatened  each  other  from  opposite  eaves,  and  the  two 
lines  of  tiled  roofs,  broken  now  and  then  by  projecting 
bay-windows,  and  azoteas  (flat  roofs  or  terraces  upon  the 
house-tops),  were  so  close  together  that  the  sky  was  re- 
duced between  them  to  a  ribbon  of  blue — of  a  very  pure 
blue. 

When  one  narrow,  white  street  came  to  an  end,  on 
either  side  there  opened  out  others  equally  narrow, 
white,  and  silent. 

Quentin  never  imagined  that  there  could  be  so  much 
solitude,  so  much  light,  so  much  mystery  and  silence. 
His  eyes,  accustomed  to  the  filtered  and  opaque  light  of 
the  North,  were  blinded  by  the  reverberation  of  the 
walls.  The  air  buzzed  in  his  ears  like  a  huge,  sonorous 
sea-shell. 

How  different  everything  was !  What  a  difference  be- 
tween this  clear  and  limpid  atmosphere,  and  that  grey 
northern  air :  between  the  refulgent  sun  of  Cordova,  and 
the  turbid  light  of  the  misty,  blackened  towns  of  Eng- 
land! 

' '  This  is  a  real  sun, ' '  thought  Quentin,  *  *  and  not  that 
thing  in  England  that  looks  like  a  wafer  stuck  on  brown 
paper. ' ' 

In  the  plazoletas,  white  houses  with  green  blinds,  with 
their  eaves  shaded  by  tracings  of  blue  paint,  their  inter- 
secting angles  twisted,  and  splashed  with  lime,  sparkled 
and  shone.  And  from  the  side  of  one  of  these  sun- 
baked plazas,  there  started  a  narrow,  damp,  and  sin- 
uous alley,  full  of  violet  shadows. 

Sometimes  Quentin  paused  before  sumptuous  facades 
of  old  manorial  houses.  At  the  furthest  end  of  the 
broad  entrance,  the  wrought-iron  flowers  of  the  grating 
stood  out  against  the  brilliant  clarity  of  a  resplendent 


o,  ORIENTAL,  ROMANTIC  CITY!  27 

patio.  That  drowsy  spot  was  surrounded  by  rows  of 
arches,  and  jardinieres  were  hung  from  the  roofs  of  the 
corridors;  while  from  a  marble  basin  in  the  centre,  a 
fountain  of  crystalline  water  plashed  in  the  air. 

In  the  houses  of  the  rich,  great  plantain  trees  spread 
their  enormous  leaves,  and  cactus  plants  in  green 
wooden  pots,  decorated  the  entrance.  In  some  of  the 
poorer  houses,  the  patios  could  be  seen  overflowing  with 
light  at  the  end  of  very  long  and  shadowy  corridors. 

The  day  was  advancing:  from  time  to  time  a  figure 
wrapped  in  a  cloak,  or  an  old  woman  with  a  basket,  or 
a  girl  with  her  hair  down  her  back  and  an  Andújar 
pitcher  on  her  well-rounded  hip,  would  pass  quickly  by, 
and  suddenly,  instantaneously,  one  or  the  other  of  them 
would  disappear  in  the  turn  of  an  alley.  An  old  woman 
was  setting  up  a  small  table,  on  top  of  which,  and 
upon  some  bits  of  paper,  she  was  arranging  coloured 
taffy. 

Without  realizing  where  he  was  going,  Quentin  came 
to  the  Mosque,  and  found  himself  before  the  wall  facing 
an  altar  with  a  wooden  shed,  and  a  grating  decorated 
with  pots  of  flowers.     On  the  altar  was  this  sign : 

Si    quieres    que    tu    dolor 
se  convierta  en  alegría, 
no  pagarás,  pecador, 
sin  alabar  a  María. 

"  (If  you  wish  your  grief  to  be  changed  to  joy,  you  will 
not  pass  by,  0  sinner,  without  first  praising  the  Virgin 
Mary.) 

Near  the  altar  was  an  open  gate,   and  through   it, 
Quentin  passed  into  the  Patio  de  los  Naranjos. 
Above  the  archway  of  the   entrance,   the   cathedral 


28  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

tower,  broad,  strong,  and  resplendent  in  the  sun,  raised 
itself  toward  heaven,  standing  out  in  clear  and  sharp 
silhouette  in  the  pure  and  diaphanous  morning  air. 

Now  and  then  a  woman  crossed  the  patio.  A  preb- 
endary, with  cap  and  crimson  mozetta,  was  walking 
slowly  up  and  down  in  the  sun,  smoking,  with  his  hands 
/  clasped  behind  his  back.  In  the  shelter  of  the  Puerta 
del  Perdón,  two  men  were  piling  oranges.  As  Quentin 
neared  the  fountain,  a  little  old  man  asked  him  solicit- 
ously : 

' '  Do  you  wish  to  see  the  Mosque  ? ' ' 

''No,  sir,"  replied  Quentin  pleasantly. 

''The  Alcázar?" 

"No." 

The  Tower?" 

"No." 

"Very  well.  Señorito,  pardon  me  if  I  have  molested 
you." 

"Not  at  all." 

When  Quentin  left  the  Patio  de  los  Naranjos,  he  met 
the  French  couple  of  the  train  near  the  Triunfo  column. 
M.  Matignon  hastened  to  greet  him. 

' '  Oh,  what  a  town !  What  a  town ! ' '  he  cried.  ' '  Oh, 
my  friend,  what  an  extraordinary  affair!" 

"Why,  what  has  happened  to  you?" 

"A  thousand  things." 

"Good  or  bad?" 

"Both.  Just  fancy:  last  night  as  I  was  coming  out 
of  a  house,  and  was  about  to  enter  my  hotel,  a  man  with 
a  lantern  in  his  hand,  and  a  short  pike,  commenced  to 
pursue  me.  I  went  into  the  hotel  and  locked  myself  in 
my  room ;  but  the  man  came  into  the  hotel ;  I  'm  sure  of 
it,  I'm  sure  of  it." 


o,  ORIENTAL,  ROMANTIC  CITY!  «9 

Quentin  laughed,  realizing  that  the  man  with  the 
lantern  and  the  short  pike  was  a  night  watchman. 

''Pay  no  attention  to  the  man  with  the  pike,"  said 
he.  ''If  he  sees  you  again  and  starts  to  follow  you, 
look  him  straight  in  the  eye,  and  say  to  him  firmly: 
'I  have  the  key.'  It  is  the  magic  word.  As  soon  as  he 
hears  it,  he  will  go  away. ' ' 

"Why?'' 

"Ah!     That  is  a  secret." 

"How  strange!  One  says  to  him,  'I  have  the  key,' 
and  he  goes  ? " 

"Yes." 

"It  is  marvellous.     Something  else  happened  to  me." 

"What?" 

"Last  night  we  went  to  a  café,  and  I  left  my  stick 
upon  a  chair.  When  I  went  back  after  it,  it  was  no 
longer  there." 

"Naturally!     Some  one  carried  it  off." 

"But  that  is  not  moral!"  declared  M.  Matignon  in- 
dignantly. 

"No.  We  Spaniards  have  no  morals,"  replied 
Quentin  somewhat  dejectedly. 

"One  cannot  live  without  morality!" 

"But  we  do  live  without  it.  With  us,  stealing  a 
stick,  or  stabbing  a  friend  are  things  of  small  impor- 
tance. ' ' 

"You  cannot  have  order  in  that  way." 

"Of  course  not." 

"Nor  discipline." 

"True." 

"Nor  society." 

"Assuredly  not:  but  here  we  live  without  those 
things." 


30  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

M.  Matignon  shook  his  head  sadly. 

''Are  you  going  to  continue  your  walk?'^  he  asked. 

''Yes." 

"We  shall  go  with  you  if  we  won't  be  in  your  way." 

"Come  by  all  means." 

Together  the  trio  began  to  wander  through  that  puz- 
zling entanglement  of  alleys.  The  barrio,  or  district 
into  which  they  penetrated  (the  vicinity  of  El  Potro), 
was  beginning  to  come  to  life.  A  few  old  women  with 
sour-looking  faces,  some  with  mantles  of  Antequera 
baize,  others  with  black  mantillas,  were  on  their  way  to 
mass,  carrying  folding  chairs  under  their  arms. 

"Dueñas,  eh?"  said  the  Frenchman,  pointing  his 
finger  at  the  old  women.  "But  their  ladies,  where  are 
they  now?" 

"Probably  snoring  at  their  ease,"  replied  Quentin. 

"But,  do  they  snore?" 

"Some  of  them,  yes." 

' '  Snore  ?  What  is  that  ? ' '  Madame  Matignon  inquired 
of  her  husband  in  French. 

*^Ronfler,  my  dear,"  said  Matignon,  'Wonfler/* 

His  wife  made  a  disdainful  little  grimace. 

When  the  gossips  in  the  streets  caught  sight  of  the 
trio,  they  exchanged  a  jest  or  two  from  door  to  door. 
Servant  girls  were  scrubbing  the  floors  of  the  patios 
with  mops,  and  singing  gipsy  songs;  balcony  windows 
flew  open  with  a  bang,  as  women  came  out  to  shake  their 
rugs  and  carpets. 

Grimy-looking  men  passed  them,  pushing  carts  and 
shouting:  "Fish!"  Vendors  of  medicinal  herbs  lan- 
guidly cried  their  wares ;  and  a  muleteer,  mounted  upon 
the  hindmost  donkey  of  his  herd,  rode  along  singing 
to  the  tune  of  the  tinkling  bells  on  his  decorated  asses. 


o,  ORIENTAL,  ROMANTIC  CITY!  31 

Once,  behind  a  window-grating,  they  caught  sight  of 
a  pallid,  anaemic  face  with  large,  sad,  black  eyes,  and  a 
white  flower  stuck  in  the  ebony  hair. 

''Oh!  Oh!"  cried  Matignon,  and  immediately  ran 
to  the  window. 

The  maiden,  offended  by  his  curiosity,  pulled  down 
the  curtain,  and  went  on  embroidering  or  sewing,  wait- 
ing for  the  handsome  gallant,  who  perhaps  never  came. 

"They  are  odalisques,"  declared  the  Frenchman 
rather  spitefully. 

In  the  doorways  on  some  of  the  streets,  they  saw  men 
working  at  turning  lathes  in  the  Moorish  fashion,  using 
a  sort  of  bow,  and  helping  themselves  in  their  tasks  with 
their  feet. 

Quentin,  who  w^as  already  tired  of  the  walk  and  of 
the  observations  and  comments  of  the  Frenchmau,  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  leaving  them. 

''I  would  like  to  ask  you  a  question  first,"  said 
Matignon. 

''Proceed." 

"I  wish  to  see  an  undertaking  establishment."  "An 
undai'rtakin^  estableeshmeni,"  the  good  man  called  it. 

"There  are  none  here,"  replied  Quentin.  "They  are 
all  far  away;  but  if  you  should  see  a  shop  where  they 
sell  guitars,  you  may  be  pretty  sure  that  that  is  where 
^they  make  coffins,  too." 

"Can  it  be  possible?" 

"Yes.     It's  a  Cordovese  custom." 

M.  Matignon 's  mouth  fell  open  in  surprise. 

"It  is  extraordinary!"  he  exclaimed  when  he  had 
recovered  from  his  astonishment,  and  he  drew  a  memo- 
randum book  and  a  pencil  from  his  pocket.  "Where 
did  this  custom  come  from?" 


32  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

**0h!  It  is  very  ancient.  The  casket-makers  here 
declared  that  they  were  loath  to  confine  their  efforts  to 
sad  things,  so  from  the  same  wood  out  of  which  they 
make  a  cofiftn,  they  take  a  piece  for  a  guitar. ' ' 

** Admirable!  Admirable!  And  they  do  not  know 
that  in  France!  What  a  philosophy  is  that  of  the 
casket-maker!  0,  Cordova,  Cordova!  How  little  thou 
art  known  in  the  world ! ' ' 

At  that  moment,  a  tattered,  bushy-haired  vendor  of 
sacred  images  crossed  a  very  small  plaza  which  contained 
a  very  large  sign-post.  Upon  his  white,  matted  hair  he 
wore  a  greasy  and  dirty  hat  as  large  as  a  portico.  His 
loose-fitting,  long-sleeved  cloak  was  worn  wrong  side  to : 
the  back  across  his  breast,  and  the  sleeves,  knotted  and 
bulky  at  the  ends,  falling  down  his  back.  Under  his 
right  arm  he  carried  the  saint,  and  in  his  belt  was  a 
cash-box  with  a  slot  for  pennies. 

''Pst!  Silence!"  said  Quentin.  **You  are  about  to 
behold  a  most  interesting  spectacle." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Do  you  see  that  man?" 

"Yes." 

"I'll  wager  you  cannot  guess  who  he  is?" 

"No." 

*  *  The  Bishop  of  Cordova ! " 

"The  Bishop!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"But  he  hasn't  the  appearance  of  a  bishop,  nor  even 
of  a  cleanly  person.  * ' 

"That  doesn't  matter.  If  you  follow  him  cautiously, 
you  will  be  able  to  see  something  very  strange." 

After  he  had  said  this,  Quentin  bowed  to  the  couple, 
and  walked  rapidly  away  in  the  direction  of  his  home. 


CHAPTER  III 

INFANCY:      SOMBRE   VESTIBULE   OP   LIFE 

ARCH^OLOGISTS  guard  those  curious,  twice- 
written  documents  called  palimpsests  as  care- 
fully as  though  they  were  so  much  gold.  They 
are  parchments  from  which  the  first  inscriptions  were 
erased  years  and  years  ago,  to  be  substituted  by  others. 
More  recently,  assiduous  investigators  have  learned  how 
to  bring  the  erased  characters  to  light,  to  decipher  them, 
and  to  read  them. 

The  idea  of  those  strange  documents  came  to 
Quentin's  mind  as  he  thought  about  his  life. 

Eight  years  of  English  school  had  apparently  com- 
pletely erased  the  memories  of  his  early  childhood. 
The  uniformity  of  his  school  life,  the  continual  sports, 
had  dulled  his  memory.  Night  after  night  Quentin 
went  to  bed  overcome  with  fatigue,  with  nothing  to  pre- 
occupy his  mind  save  his  themes  and  his  lessons;  but 
his  removal  from  the  scholarly  atmosphere,  and  his 
return  to  his  home,  had  been  sufficient  to  reawaken 
memories  of  his  childhood — vaguely  at  first,  but  daily 
growing  stronger,  more  distinct,  and  more  detailed. 

The  erased  inscription  of  the  palimpsest  was  again 
becoming  comprehensible:  memories  long  dormant  were 
crowding  Quentin ^s  mind:  of  these  recollections,  some 
were  sad  and  gloomy;  others,  and  these  were  very  few, 
were  gay ;  still  others  were  not  as  yet  very  clear  to  him. 

33 


34  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Quentin  endeavoured  to  reconstruct  his  childhood. 
He  remembered  having  passed  it  in  a  house  on  the 
Calle  de  Librerías,  near  the  Calle  de  la  Feria  and  the 
Cuesta  de  Lujan,  and  he  went  to  see  the  place.  It  was 
on  a  corner  of  the  street:  a  rose-coloured  house  with  a 
silversmith's  shop  on  the  lower  floor,  two  large  and  pre- 
tentious balconies  on  the  main  floor,  and  above  them, 
two  rectangular  windows.  On  top  of  the  roof,  was  a 
diminutive  azotea  surrounded  by  a  rubble-stone  wall. 

''That  is  where  I  was  as  a  child,"  said  Quentin  to 
himself. 

He  remembered  vaguely  that  hedge-mustard  used  to 
grow  between  the  slabs  of  the  azotea,  and  that  he  had 
a  white  cat  with  which  he  used  to  play. 

He  peeped  into  the  shop,  and  there  came  to  his  mind 
the  picture  of  a  man  with  white  hair  whom  his  mother 
tried  to  get  him  to  kiss — something  she  never  succeeded 
in  doing. 

"I  must  have  been  a  little  savage  in  those  days," 
thought  Quentin. 

He  strolled  along  the  Calle  de  la  Feria  and  recalled 
his  escapades  with  the  little  boys  of  the  vicinity  of  La 
Ribera  and  El  Murallón  where  they  used  to  play. 

His  memory  did  not  flow  smoothly.  There  were  large 
gaps  in  it:  persons,  things,  and  places  were  blurred 
confusedly.  His  vivid  recollections  began  in  the  Calle 
de  la  Zapatería,  where  his  parents  established  their  first 
shop.  From  there  on,  the  incidents  were  linked  to- 
gether; they  had  an  explanation,  a  conclusion. 

Quentin  was  taken  to  school  when  he  was  very  young 
— three  or  four  years  old — because  he  was  in  the  way 
at  the  store.  As  a  very  small  child  he  was  distinguished 
as  a  dare-devil,  a  rowdy,  and  a  swaggering  boaster ;  and 


INFANCY 


many  times  he  returned  from  school  with  his  trousers 
torn,  or  a  black  eye. 

Once  he  had  a  fight  with  one  of  his  schoolmates  who 
came  from  a  town  called  Cabra  (Goat).  For  this  rea- 
son, the  others  used  to  poke  fun  at  him,  calling  him  a 
''son  of  a  goat,"  and  making  rude  derivations  from  the 
name  of  his  home  town.  Quentin  was  one  of  the  most 
insulting,  and  one  day  the  tormented  lad  answered  him : 

''You're  a  bigger  son  of  a  goat  than  I  am,  and  your 
mother  is  living  with  a  silversmith." 

Quentin  waited  for  his  comrade  to  come  out  of  school, 
and  then  punched  his  nose — only  to  be  thrashed  by  his 
victim's  older  brother  afterwards.  This  affair  gave 
origin  to  a  continual  series  of  fights,  and  nearly  every 
day  Quentin  was  crippled  by  the  beatings  he  received. 

' '  Why,  what 's  the  matter  with  you  ? ' '  his  mother  once 
asked. 

"They  told  me  at  school  that  my  mother  was  living 
with  a  silversmith." 

"Who  told  you?" 

"Everybody,"  replied  Quentin  with  a  frown. 

"And  what  did  you  do." 

"Fought  'em  all!" 

His  mother  said  nothing  more,  but  she  withdrew 
Quentin  from  that  school  and  took  him  to  another,  which 
was  presided  over  by  a  dominie,  and  attended  by  a 
couple  of  dozen  children. 

The  dominie  was  a  secularized  monk  by  the  name  of 
Piñuela — an  old  fossil  full  of  musty  prejudices.  He 
was  a  strong  partisan  of  the  ancient  pedagogic  principle, 
so  much  beloved  by  our  ancestors,  of  "La  letra  con  la 
sangre  entra"  (Learn  by  the  sweat  of  thy  brow). 

Dominie  Piñuela  was  a  ridiculous  and  eccentric  indi- 


36  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

vidual.  His  nose  was  large,  coarse,  and  flaming  red: 
his  under  lip  hung  down:  his  great  eyes,  turbid,  and 
bulging  from  their  sockets  like  two  eggs,  were  always 
watery:  he  wore  a  long,  tight-fitting  frock  coat,  which 
was  once  black,  but  now  with  the  passage  of  time,  cov- 
ered with  layers  of  dirt  and  grease  and  dandruff;  nar- 
row trousers,  bagging  loosely  at  the  knees,  and  a  black 
skull-cap. 
yj  Piñuela 's  only  store  of  knowledge  consisted  of  Latin, 
rhetoric,  and  writing.  His  system  of  instruction  was 
based  on  the  division  of  the  class  into  two  groups,  Rome 
and  Carthage,  a  book  of  translations,  and  a  Latin  Gram- 
mar. Besides  these  educational  mediums,  the  secular- 
ized monk  counted  upon  the  aid  of  a  ferrule,  a  whip,  a 
long  bamboo  stick,  and  a  small  leather  sack  filled  with 
bird-shot. 

Piñuela  taught  writing  by  the  Spanish  method,  with 
the  letters  ending  in  points.  To  do  this  one  had  to 
know  how  to  cut  and  trim  quill  pens;  and  few  there 
were  who  had  the  advantage  of  the  Dominie  in  this  art. 

Besides  this.  Piñuela  corrected  the  vicious  pronuncia- 
tion of  his  pupils ;  and  in  order  to  do  so,  he  exaggerated 
his  own  by  doubling  his  z's  and  s's.  One  of  the  selec- 
tions of  his  readings  began  as  follows:  Amanezzia;  era 
la  mass  hella  mañana  de  prim^fera  (Dawn  was  break- 
ing; it  was  the  most  beautiful  day  of  Spring) :  and  all 
the  children  had  to  say  *'primafera'^  and  *'fida''  unless 
they  wished  their  lessons  to  be  supplemented  by  a  blow 
with  the  ferrule. 

The  Dominie  walked  constantly  to  and  fro  with  his 
pen  behind  his  ear.  If  he  saw  that  a  child  was  not 
studying,  or  had  not  pointed  his  letters  sufficiently  in 
his  copy-book,  according  to  the  principles  of  Iturzaeta, 


INFANCY  37 


he  beat  him  with  the  stick,  or  threw  the  bag  of  shot  at 
his  head. 

''Idling,  eh?— Idling?"  he  would  murmur,  ''I'll  teach 
you  to  idle ! ' ' 

For  more  serious  occasions,  the  stupid  Dominie  had 
his  whip ;  but  nearly  all  of  the  parents  warned  him  not 
to  use  it  on  their  children — which  for  Piñuela  was  the 
plainest  symptom  of  the  decadence  of  the  times. 

At  first  Quentin  felt  the  profoundest  hate  for  the 
Dominie:  he  tormented  him  every  time  he  could  with 
unutterable  joy;  he  broke  his  inkwells;  he  bored  holes 
in  his  writing-desk;  and  Piñuela  retaliated  by  boxing 
his  ears.  Between  master  and  pupil  there  began  to  arise 
a  certain  ironical  and  joyous  esteem  by  force  of  beatings 
from  the  one,  and  pranks  from  the  other.  They  looked 
upon  each  other  as  faithful  enemies ;  Quentin 's  mischief 
provoked  laughter  from  Piñuela,  and  the  Dominie's 
beatings  wrested  an  ironical  smile  from  Quentin. 

Once  the  pupils  saw  Piñuela  advancing  with  his 
pointer  raised  on  high,  and  Quentin  running,  hiding  be- 
hind tables,  and  throwing  inkwells  at  the  Dominie 's  head. 

One  day  two  old  women  were  gossiping  in  the  shop  at 
home.  They  were  two  street  vendors,  one  of  whom  was 
called  Siete  Tonos,  on  account  of  the  seven  different 
tones  she  used  in  crying  her  wares, 

"They  have  hard  luck  with  the  little  scamp.  He's  a 
wicked  little  devil,"  said  one  of  them. 

"Yes;  he's  not  like  his  father,"  added  the  other. 

"But  El  Pende  isn't  his  father." 

"Ah!    Isn't  he?" 

"No." 

Quentin  waited  for  them  to  say  more,  but  the  clerk 
entered  the  store,  and  the  gossips  fell  silent. 


38  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

El  Pende  was  the  nickname  of  the  man  who  passed  for 
Quentin's  father.  The  boy  thought  about  the  conver- 
sation of  the  two  old  gossips  for  a  long  time,  and  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  there  had  been  something  obscure 
about  his  birth.  He  was  proud  and  haughty,  and  con- 
sidered himself  worthy  of  royal  descent,  so  the  idea  of 
dishonour  irritated  him,  and  made  him  desperate. 

One  day  his  mother  went  to  ask  the  Dominie  how  her 
son  was  behaving  himself. 

**How  is  he  behaving  himself?"  cried  Piñuela  with 
ironic  geniality.  ''Badly!  Very  badly!  He^s  the 
worst  boy  in  the  class.  A  veritable  dishonour  to  my 
school.  He  knows  nothing  about  Latin,  nor  grammar, 
nor  logic,  nor  anything.  I'm  sure  that  he  doesn't  even 
know  how  to  decline  musa,  musae.*' 

*  *  So  you  think  he  is  no  good  at  studying  ? ' ' 

''He  is  a  rowdy,  incapable  of  ever  possessing  the 
sublime  language  of  Lacius." 

His  mother  told  her  husband  what  Piñuela  had  said, 
and  El  Pende  launched  a  sermon  at  Quentin. 

"So  this  is  the  way  you  behave  after  the  sacrifices  we 
have  made  for  you ! ' ' 

Quentin  did  not  reply  to  the  charges  they  made 
against  him,  but  when  El  Pende  told  him  that  if  he 
continued  his  pranks  he  would  throw  him  out  of  the 
house,  the  thought  that  was  in  Quentin's  heart  rushed 
to  his  lips. 

"It  makes  no  difference  to  me,"  he  cried,  "because 
you  are  not  my  father. ' ' 

El  Pende  boxed  the  boy's  ears;  the  mother  wept;  and 
that  night  Quentin  left  the  house  and  roamed  the  fields 
half -starved,  until  Palomares,  the  clerk,  found  him  and 
brought  him  to  his  parents. 


INFANCY  39 


The  boy  began  to  take  notice  of  things,  and  made  it 
plain  to  his  mother  that  instead  of  studying  Latin,  he 
preferred  to  learn  French  and  go  to  America,  as  a  school- 
mate of  his — the  son  of  a  Swiss  watchmaker — ^had  done. 

Accordingly  they  took  him  to  the  academy  of  a  French 
emigré,  a  violent  republican,  who,  at  the  same  time  that 
he  taught  his  pupils  to  conjugate  the  verb  avoir,  spoke  to 
them  enthusiastically  about  Danton,  Robespierre,  and 
Hoche. 

Perhaps  this  excited  Quentin's  imagination;  perhaps 
it  did  not  need  to  be  excited;  at  any  rate,  one  Sunday 
morning  he  decided  to  put  into  execution  his  great 
pro  jet  de  voyage. 

His  mother  was  accustomed  to  hide  the  key  to  the 
cabinet  where  she  kept  her  money  under  her  pillow. 
While  she  was  at  mass,  Quentin  seized  the  key,  opened 
the  cabinet,  stuffed  the  seventy  dollars  that  he  found 
there  into  his  pocket,  and  a  few  minutes  later  was 
calmly  increasing  the  distance  between  himself  and  his 
home. 

Fifteen  days  after  his  escape  he  was  apprehended  in 
Cadiz  just  as  he  was  about  to  set  sail  for  America,  and 
was  brought  back  to  Cordova  in  the  custody  of  the 
guardia  civil. 

Then  his  mother  took  him  to  a  monastery,  but  Quentin 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  run  away  from  everything,  so 
he  attempted  to  escape  several  times.  At  the  end  of  a 
month,  the  friars  intimated  that  they  did  not  wish  to 
keep  him  any  longer. 

To  the  boys  of  his  age,  Quentin  was  now  the  proto- 
type of  wildness,  impudence,  and  disobedience.  People 
predicted  an  evil  future  for  him. 

At  this  point  his  mother  said  to  him  one  day: 


40  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

**We  are  going  to  a  certain  house.  Kindly  answer 
politely  anything  they  may  ask  you  there." 

Quentin  said  nothing,  but  accompanied  his  mother  to 
a  palace  on  the  Calle  del  Sol.  They  climbed  some  marble 
stairs,  and  entered  a  hall  where  a  white-haired  old  man 
was  sitting  in  a  large,  deep  armchair,  with  a  blond  little 
girl  who  looked  like  an  angel  to  Quentin,  by  his  side. 

"So  this  is  the  little  scamp?"  inquired  the  little  old 
man  with  a  smile. 

*  *  Si,  Señor  Marqués, ' '  replied  Quentin 's  mother. 

"And  what  do  you  wish  to  do,  my  boy?"  the  Marquis 
asked  him. 

"  I ! —  Get  out  of  here  as  soon  as  I  possibly  can, ' '  re- 
plied Quentin  in  a  dull  voice. 

"But,  why?" 

"Because  I  hate  this  town." 

The  little  girl  must  have  looked  at  him  in  horror;  at 
least  he  supposed  she  did. 

His  mother  and  the  old  man  chatted  a  while,  and  at 
last  the  latter  exclaimed: 

"Very  well,  my  boy.  You  shall  go  to  England.  Get 
his  baggage  ready,"  he  added,  turning  to  the  mother, 
"and  let  him  go  as  soon  as  possible." 

Quentin  departed,  making  the  journey  sometimes  in 
the  company  of  others,  sometimes  alone,  and  entered 
Eton  School,  near  Windsor.  In  a  short  time  he  had  for- 
gotten his  entire  former  life. 

In  the  English  school  the  professor  was  not  the  enemy 
of  the  scholar,  but  rather  one  of  his  schoolmates.  Quen- 
tin met  boys  as  daring  as  he,  and  stronger  than  he,  and 
he  had  to  look  alive.  That  school  was  something  like  a 
primitive  forest  where  the  strong  devoured  the  weak, 
and  conquered  and  abused  them. 


INFANCY  41 


The  brutality  of  the  English  education  acted  like  a 
tonic  upon  Quentin,  and  made  him  athletic  and  good- 
humoured.  The  thing  of  paramount  importance  that  he 
learned  there,  was  that  one  must  be  strong  and  alert  and 
calm  in  life,  and  ready  to  conquer  always. 

In  the  same  way  that  he  accepted  this  concept  on  ac- 
count of  the  way  it  flattered  him,  he  rejected  the  moral 
and  sentimental  concepts  of  his  fellow-pupils  and 
masters.  Those  young  men  of  bulldog  determination, 
valiant,  strengthened  by  football  and  rowing,  and 
nourished  by  underdone  meat,  were  full  of  ridiculous 
conventions  and  respect  for  social  class,  for  the  hier- 
archy, and  for  authority. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  passed  for  an  aristocrat 
and  a  son  of  a  marquis  in  order  to  enjoy  a  certain  pres- 
tige in  the  school,  Quentin  manifested  a  profound  con- 
tempt for  the  principles  his  schoolmates  held  in  such 
respect.  He  considered  that  authority,  wigs,  and  cere- 
monies were  grotesque,  and  consequently  was  looked 
upon  as  the  worst  kind  of  a  poser. 

He  used  to  maintain,  much  to  the  stupefaction  of  his 
comrades,  that  he  felt  no  enthusiasm  for  religion,  nor 
for  his  native  land ;  that  not  only  would  he  not  sacrifice 
himself  for  them,  but  he  would  not  even  give  a  farthing 
to  save  them.  Moreover,  he  asserted  that  if  he  should 
ever  become  rich,  he  would  prefer  to  owe  his  money  to 
chance,  rather  than  to  constant  effort  on  his  part;  and 
that  to  work,  as  the  English  did,  that  their  wives  might 
amuse  themselves  and  live  well,  was  absurd — for  all 
their  blond  hair,  .their  great  beauty,  and  their  flute-like 
voices. 

A  man  with  his  ideas,  and  one,  moreover,  who  followed 
women — even  servant  girls — in  the  street,   and  made 


42  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

complimentary  remarks  to  them,  could  not  be  a  gentle- 
man, and  for  this  reason,  Quentin  had  no  intimate 
friends.  He  was  respected  for  his  good  fists,  but  en- 
joyed absolutely  no  esteem  .  .  . 

During  his  last  years  at  school,  his  only  real  friend  was 
an  Italian  teacher  of  music  named  Caravaglia.  This 
man  communicated  to  Quentin  his  enthusiasm  for  Bel- 
lini, Donizetti,  Rossini,  and  Verdi.  Caravaglia  used  to 
sit  at  the  piano  and  sing.  Quentin  listened  to  him  and 
was  much  softened  by  the  music.  The  Alma  innamo- 
ratta  from  Lucia,  and  La  cavattina  from  Hernani,  made 
him  weep;  but  his  greatest  favourites,  the  songs  that 
went  straight  to  his  heart,  were  the  manly  arias  from  the 
Italian  operas  like  that  in  Rigoletto,  that  goes: 

La  Constanza  teranna  del  core. 

This  song,  overflowing  with  arrogance,  merry  fanfar- 
onade, indiiference,  and  egoism,  enchanted  him. 

On  the  other  hand,  to  his  psalm-singing  comrades,  this 
merry  and  swaggering  music  seemed  worthy  of  the 
greatest  contempt. 

In  the  farewell  banquet  which  Quentin  gave  to  his 
four  or  five  companions,  and  to  the  Italian  professor, 
there  were  several  toasts. 

'*I  am  not  a  Protestant,''  said  Quentin  at  the  last, 
somewhat  befuddled  with  ^whiskey,  *'nor  am  I  a  Cath- 
olic. I  am  a  Horatian.  I  believe  in  the  wine  of  Faler- 
nus,  and  in  Cécube  and  his  wines  of  Calais.  I  also 
believe  that  we  mortals  must  leave  the  task  of  calming 
the  winds  to  the  gods.'* 

After  this  important  declaration,  nothing  more  is 
known,  except  the  fact  that  the  diners  all  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  IV 

BLUE  EYES,  BLACK  EYES 

I 

■    <*/^EE    here,    Quentin/'    said    his    mother,    ''you 

^^^   ought  to  go  and  call  on  the  Marquis. ' ' 

k^^  ''Very  well,"  Quentin  answered,  "must  I 
go  today?" 

"You'd  better." 

"Then  I  shall." 

' '  Do  you  remember  where  he  lives  ? " 

"Yes,  I  think  I  can  find  the  house." 

"It's  in  the  Calle  del  Sol;  any  one  will  point  out  the 
palace  to  you." 

Quentin  left  the  house,  turned  into  the  Plaza  de  la 
Corredera,  and  from  the  Calle  del  Poyo,  by  encircling  a 
church,  he  came  out  upon  the  Calle  de  Santiago.  It  was 
a  moderately  warm  day  in  January,  with  an  overcast 
sky.     A  few  drops  of  rain  were  falling. 

Quentin  was  very  much  preoccupied  by  the  visit  he 
was  about  to  make. 

So  far,  he  had  not  asked  what  relation  he  was  to  that 
man.  Surely  some  relationship  did  exist;  a  bastard 
kinship ;  something  defamatory  to  Quentin. 

Sunk  deep  in  these  thoughts,  Quentin  wandered  from 
his  way,  and  was  obliged  to  ask  where  the  street  was. 

The  palace  of  the  Marquis  of  Tavera  stood  in  a  street 
4n  the  lower  part  of  town,  which  with  different  names 

43 


44  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

for  its  different  parts,  stretched  from  the  Plaza  de  San 
Pedro  to  the  Campo  de  la  Madre  de  Dios. 

The  Marquis'  palace  was  extremely  large.  Five  bay- 
windows,  framed  in  thick  moulding,  with  ornate  iron- 
work and  brass  flower-pots,  opened  from  a  fagade  of  a 
yellow,  porous  stone.  On  either  side  of  the  larger  centre 
balcony,  there  rose  two  piliisters  surmounted  by  a  tim- 
panum,  in  the  middle  of  which  was  the  half-obliterated 
carving  of  a  shield.  The  decayed  iron-work  of  the  bal- 
ustrade was  twisted  into  complicated  designs. 

On  the  ground  floor,  four  large  gratings  clawed  the 
walls  of  the  palace,  and  in  the  centre  was  a  large  opening 
closed  by  a  massive  door  studded  with  nails,  and  topped 
by  a  fan-shaped  window. 

Before  the  palace,  the  street  widened  into  a  small- 
sized  plaza.  Quentin  entered  the  wide  entrance,  and 
his  footsteps  resounded  with  a  hollow  sound. 

Some  distance  ahead  of  him,  through  the  iron  bars  of 
the  grating  at  the  end  of  a  dark  gallery,  he  could  see  a 
sunny  garden ;  and  that  shady  zone,  terminating  in  such 
a  brilliant  spot  of  light,  recalled  the  play  of  light  and 
shade  in  the  canvases  of  the  old  masters. 

Quentin  pulled  a  chain,  and  a  bell  rang  in  the  distance 
with  a  solemn  sound. 

Several  minutes  elapsed  without  any  one  coming  to  the 
entry,  and  Quentin  rang  again. 

A  moment  later  the  vivid  sunlight  of  the  distant  gar- 
den, which  shone  like  a  square  patch  of  light  at  the  end 
of  the  shadowy  corridor,  was  dimmed  by  the  silhouette 
of  a  man  who  came  forward  until  he  reached  and  opened 
the  grating.  He  was  small  in  stature,  and  old,  and  wore 
overalls,  an  undershirt,  and  a  broad-brimmed  hat. 

*'What  did  you  wish?'*  asked  the  old  man. 


BLUE  EYES,  BLACK  EYES       45 

* '  Is  the  Señor  Marqués  at  home  1 ' ' 

''Si,  Señor." 

''May  I  see  him?" 

"I  don't  know;  ask  upstairs."  The  old  man  opened 
the  grating,  and  Quentin  passed  through. 

Through  a  door  on  the  right  he  could  see  a  deserted 
patio.  In  the  centre  of  it  was  a  fountain  formed  by  a 
bowl  which  spilled  the  water  into  a  basin  in  six  sparkling 
jets.  On  the  left  of  the  wide  vestibule  rose  a  monumen- 
tal stairway  made  of  black  and  white  marble.  The  very 
high  ceiling  was  covered  with  huge  panels  which  were 
broken  and  decayed. 

"Is  this  the  way?"  Quentin  asked  the  old  man, 
pointing  to  the  stairway. 

"Si,  Señor." 

He  climbed  the  stairs  to  the  landing,  and  paused  be- 
fore a  large,  panelled,  double  door.  In  the  centre  of 
each  half,  he  discerned  two  large  and  handsomely 
carved  escutcheons.  To  the  left  of  this  door  there  was  a 
window  through  which  Quentin  peeped. 

"Oh,  how  beautiful!"  he  murmured  in  astonishment. 

He  saw  a  splendid  garden,  full  of  orange  trees  laden 
with  fruit.  In  the  open,  the  trees  were  tall  and  erect; 
against  the  walls  they  took  the  form  of  vines,  climbing 
the  high  walls,  and  covering  them  with  their  dark  green 
foliage. 

A  light  rain  was  falling,  and  it  was  a  wonderful  sight 
to  see  the  oranges  glistening  like  balls  of  red  and  yellow 
gold  among  the  dark,  rain-soaked  leaves.  The  glistening 
brilliancy  of  the-  foliage,  and  of  the  golden  fruit,  the 
grey  sky,  and  the  damp  air  created  an  extraordinary 
effect  of  exuberance  and  life. 

Silence  reigned  in  the  shady  garden.    From  time  to 


46  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

time,  from  his  hiding-place  in  a  tree,  some  bird  poured 
forth  his  sweet  song.  A  pale  yellow  sunbeam  struggled 
to  illuminate  the  spot,  and  as  it  was  reflected  upon  the 
wet  leaves,  it  made  them  flash  with  a  metallic  bril- 
liancy .  .  . 

Above  the  opposite  wall,  rose  the  silhouette  of  a  black- 
ened and  moss-covered  belfry,  surmounted  by  the  figure 
of  an  angel.  In  the  distance,  over  the  house-tops,  rose 
the  dark  sierra,  partially  hidden  by  bluish  mists.  These 
mists  were  moved  about  by  the  wind,  and  as  they  drifted 
along,  or  dissipated  into  the  air,  they  disclosed  several 
white  orchards  which  heretofore  had  been  concealed  by 
the  haze. 

On  the  mountain-top,  as  the  white  penants  of  mist 
floated  among  the  trees,  they  left  tenuous  filaments  like 
those  silver  threads  woven  among  the  thorn  bushes  by 
lémures. 

Quentin  was  gazing  tirelessly  upon  the  scene,  when 
he  heard  footsteps  behind  him.  He  turned  and  saw  a 
little  girl  of  ten  or  twelve  years,  with  her  hair  down  her 
back. 

* '  Grood-af ternoon, ' '  said  the  child  with  a  marked 
Andalusian  accent,  as  she  came  up  to  him. 

Quentin  removed  his  hat  respectfully,  and  the  child 
smiled. 

"Have  you  rung?''  she  asked. 

"No." 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  a  large,  over-grown  servant  girl 
opened  the  door  and  asked  Quentin  what  he  wanted. 

*  *  Give  the  Señor  Marqués  my  card, ' '  he  said,  * '  and  tell 
him  that  I  have  come  to  pay  him  my  respects." 

"Come  in,  Señor." 

Quentin  entered.    He  rather  wished  that  the  Marquis 


BLUE  EYES,  BLACK  EYES       47 

would  not  care  to  receive  him,  hoping  in  this  way  to 
avoid  making  a  tiresome  call,  but  his  wish  was  not 
granted,  for  in  a  short  time,  the  over-grown  servant  girl 
asked  him  to  kindly  follow  her. 

They  traversed  a  gallery  whose  windows  looked  out 
upon  the  patio  of  the  fountain ;  then,  after  crossing  two 
large,  dark  rooms,  they  came  to  a  high-ceilinged  hall 
panelled  in  leather,  and  with  a  red  rug,  tarnished  by  the  - 
years,  upon  the  floor. 

*'Sit  down.  Señor;  the  master  will  be  here  directly," 
said  the  maid. 

Quentin  seated  himself  and  began  to  examine  the  hall. 
It  was  large  and  rectangular,  with  three  broad,  and 
widely-separated  balcony  windows  looking  out  upon  the 
garden.  The  room  possessed  an  air  of  complete  desola- 
tion. The  painted  walls  from  which  the  plaster  had 
peeled  off  in  places,  were  hung  with  life-size  portraits 
of  men  in  the  uniforms  and  habiliments  of  nobility: 
in  some  of  the  pictures  the  canvas  was  torn;  in  others, 
the  frames  were  eaten  by  moths:  the  great,  rickety, 
leather-covered  armchairs  staggered  under  the  touch  of 
a  hand  upon  their  backs :  two  ancient  pieces  of  tapestry 
with  figures  in  relief,  which  concealed  the  doors,  were 
full  of  large  rents:  on  the  panels  in  the  ceiling,  spiders 
wove  their  white  webs:  a  very  complicated  seventeenth 
century  clock,  with  pendulum  and  dial  of  copper,  had 
ceased  to  run:  the  only  things  in  that  antique  salon 
that  were  out  of  harmony,  were  the  French  fire-place  in 
which  some  wood  was  burning,  and  a  little  gilt  clock 
upon  the  marble  .mantel,  which,  like  a  good  parvenu, 
impertinently  called  attention  to  itself. 

When  he  had  waited  a  moment,  a  curtain  was  pulled 
aside,  and  an  old  man,  bent  with  age,  entered  the  salon. 


48  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

He  was  followed  by  a  little  bow-legged  hunchback,  cross- 
eyed, grey-haired,  and  dressed  in  black. 

' '  Where  is  the  boy  ? '  ^  asked  the  old  man  in  a  cracked 
voice.  j 

** Right  in  front  of  you,"  replied  the  hunchback. 

*'Come  closer!"  exclaimed  the  Marquis,  addressing 
Quentin.     **I  do  not  see  very  well." 

Quentin  approached  him,  and  the  old  man  seized  his 
hand  and  looked  at  him  very  closely. 

''Come,  sit  by  me.  Have  you  enjoyed  good  health 
at  school?" 

''Yes,  Señor  Marqués." 

"Don't  call  me  that,"  murmured  the  old  man,  patting 
Quentin 's  hand.  "Have  you  learned  to  speak  Eng- 
lish?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"But,  well?" 

"I  speak  it  as  well  as  I  do  Spanish." 

"English  is  very  hard,"  said  the  hunchback,  who  had 
seated    himself    upon    the    floor.     "Yes    means    yesca 
(tinder)  ;  verigilel  means  muy  bien  (very  well),  and  as  ^ 
for  the  rest — ^when  you  can  say,  '  I  catch,  I  go,  I  say ' —  , 
you  know  English."  1 

"Hush,  Colmenares,"  said  the  Marquis,  "don't  be  a' 
fool." 

"You're  more  of  a  fool  than  I  am,"  replied  the 
dwarf. 

The  old  man,  paying  no  attention  to  him,  said  to 
Quentin:  I 

"I  already  know,  I  already  know  that  you  have  not 
been  up  to  any  more  foolishness." 

The  hunchback  burst  into  noisy  laughter. 

"Then  he  doesn't  belong  to  your  family,"  he  ex- 


BLUE  EYES,  BLACK  EYES       49 

i  claimed,  '^  because  every  one  of  your  family,  beginning 
with  you,  is  a  fool. '^ 

' '  Hush,  buffoon,  be  quiet ;  I  '11  warm  your  ribs  for  you 
if  you  don't." 

This  threat  from  the  lips  of  the  sickly  octogenarian, 
was  absolutely  absurd;  but  the  hunchback  appeared  to 
take  it  in  earnest,  for  he  began  to  make  faces  and  grin 
¡  in  silence. 

S      *'0h.  Colmenares,"  said  the  old  man,  "kindly  call 
'  Rafaela,  will  you  ? ' ' 
Í      ''Very  well." 

The  hunchback  went  out,  leaving  the  Marquis  and 
■  Quentin  alone. 

''Well,  my  boy,  I  have  asked  your  mother  about  you 

very  often.     She  told  me  that  you  were  well,  and  that 

you  were  working  hard.     I  am  very  glad  to  see  you" — 

'  and  again  he  pressed  Quentin 's  hand  between  his  own 

!  weak  and  trembling  ones. 

I      Quentin  regarded  the  old  man  tenderly,  without  know- 
ing what  to  say.     At  this  moment,  the  hunchback  re- 
,  turned,  followed  by  a  young  lady  and  a  little  girl.     The 
'  little  girl  was  the  one  Quentin  had  greeted  upon  the 
stairs;  the  young  lady  was  the  same  girl  he  had  seen 
several  years  before — probably  in  that  very  same  room. 
Quentin  rose  to  greet  them. 

"Rafaela,"  said  the  old  man,  addressing  the  older 
girl,  "this  boy  is  a  relative  of  ours.  I  am  not  going  to 
recall  incidents  that  sadden  me:  the  only  thing  I 
want  is  that  you  should  know  that  you  are  related. 
Quentin  will  come. here  often,  will  you  not?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  he,  more  and  more  astounded 
at  the  direction  the  interview  was  taking. 
"Good.     That  is  all." 


50  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

At  this  point,  the  hunchback,  clutching  the  Marquis 
by  the  sleeve,  asked: 

''Would  you  like  me  to  play  for  you?" 

''Yes,  do." 

The  hunchback  brought  a  small,  lute-shaped  guitar, 
drew  up  a  tabouret,  and  sat  at  the  feet  of  the  Marquis. 
Then  he  began  to  pluck  the  strings  with  fingers  as  long 
and  delicate  as  spiders'  legs.  He  played  a  guitar  march, 
and  then,  much  to  Quentin's  astonishment,  the  old  Mar- 
quis began  to  sing.  He  sang  a  patriotic  song  in  a 
cracked  voice.  It  was  a  very  old  one,  and  ended  with 
the  following  stanza: 

Ay  mi  patria,  patria  mía,  ^ 

y  también  de  mi  querida; 
luchar  valiente  por  patria  y  amor, 
es  el  deber  del  guerrero  español. 

(Ah,  my  country,  country  of  mine,  and  also  of  my 
sweetheart ;  to  fight  for  country  and  love,  is  the  duty  of 
the  Spanish  warrior.) 

When  the  old  man  had  finished  the  song,  his  grand- 
daughters embraced  him,  and  he  smiled  most  content- 
edly. 

Quentin  felt  as  though  he  had  been  transported  to 
another  century.  The  shabby  house,  the  old  Marquis, 
the  buffoon,  the  beautiful  girls — everything  seemed  un- 
usual. 

The  two  sisters  were  pretty ;  Rafaela,  the  older  sister, 
was  extremely  attractive.  Some  twenty-three  or  twenty- 
four  years  of  age,  she  had  clear,  blue  eyes — eyes  the 
colour  of  pale  blue  satin — blond  hair,  a  straight  nose, 
and  an  enchanting  smile.     Lacking  the  freshness  of  her 


BLUE  EYES,  BLACK  EYES       51 

first  youth,  there  was  a  suspicion  of  marcidity  in  her 
face,  which,  perhaps,  enhanced  her  attractiveness. 

The  face  of  Remedios,  the  child,  was  less  symmetrical, 
but  more  positive:  she  had  large,  black  eyes,  and  an 
expression  of  mixed  audacity,  childishness,  and  arro- 
gance. Now  and  then  she  smiled  silently  and  mischiev- 
ously. 

When  Quentin  felt  that  he  had  stayed  long  enough, 
he  rose,  gave  his  hand  to  the  two  girls,  and  hesitantly 
approached  the  old  man,  who  threw  his  arms  about  his 
neck  and  tearfully  embraced  him. 

He  saluted  the  hunchback  with  a  nod  of  his  head 
which  was  scarcely  answered;  descended  the  stairs,  and 
upon  reaching  the  vestibule,  the  man  who  had  let  him  in, 
asked  : 

*' Excuse  me.  Señor,  but  are  you  the  man  who  got 
back  from  England  a  little  while  ago  ? ' ' 

''Yes.'' 

''That's  what  I  thought.  Are  you  going  to  stay  in 
Cordova?" 

"I  believe  so." 

' '  Then  we  shall  see  you  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  I  shall  call  from  time  to  time." 

The  two  men  shook  hands,  and  Quentin  stepped  into 
the  street. 

"The  old  man  is  my  grandfather,"  said  Quentin, 
"that's  just  what  he  is.  His  emotion,  his  harrowed 
look — that's  jiist  what  he  is." 

Perhaps  the  best  thing  to  do  would  be  to  ask  his 
mother  exactly  what  the  circumstances  of  his  birth 
were ;  but  he  feared  to  offend  her. 

He  soon  forgot  about  that,  and  began  to  think  about 


62  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

the  blond-haired  girl  Rafaela.  She  was  pretty.  Indeed 
she  was!  Her  clear,  soft  eyes;  her  pleasant  smile;  and 
above  all,  her  opaque  voice  had  gone  straight  to  Quen- 
tin's  heart:  but  as  Quentin  was  not  a  dreamer,  but  a 
Boeotian,  a  Horatian,  as  he  himself  had  remarked,  he 
associated  with  Rafaela 's  soft,  blue  eyes,  the  ancestral 
home,  the  beautiful  garden,  and  the  wealth  which  her 
family  must  still  possess. 

Quentin  devoted  the  days  following  this  visit  to  cogi- 
tating upon  this  point. 

Rafaela  was  an  admirable  prize — pretty,  pleasant, 
and  aristocratic.  He  must  attempt  the  conquest.  True, 
he  was  an  illegitimate  child.  He  had  a  desire  to  laugh 
at  that  thought,  it  seemed  so  operatic  to  him:  now  he 
could  sing  the  aria  from  II  Trovatore: 

Deserto  sulla  terra. 

Bastard  or  no  bastard,  he  considered  that  the  thing 
was  possible.  He  was  tall,  handsome,  and  above  all, 
strong.  In  Eton,  he  had  noticed  that  after  all,  the 
greatest  attraction  in  a  man  for  women  is  strength. 

They  said  that  the  Marquis'  house  was  going  to  ruin: 
he  would  save  it  from  ruin  and  restore  it  splendidly. 
Then — into  the  street  with  those  who  got  in  his  way! 
It  was  a  great  plan. 

Truly,  Rafaela  was  an  admirable  prize.  To  marry 
her,  and  live  in  that  sumptuous  house  with  the  two 
sisters  until  the  place  was  completely  repaired,  would 
be  a  life  indeed!  He  would  write  his  school  friends 
and  tell  them  about  his  marriage  to  an  Andalusian 
descendant  of  the  Cid,  and  describe  the  patios  filled 
with  orange  trees  .  .  .  Then  he  could  say  with  his 
poet:    "Let  them  serve  us  quickly  this  bottle  of  Pa- 


BLUE  EYES,  BLACK  EYES       53 

lemus  in  the  neighbouring  gorge."  After  that  .  .  . 
then  came  new  chapters,  as  yet  scarcely  outlined  in  his 
imagination.  .  ,  . 

He  would  represent  himself  from  the  very  first  as  a 
romanticfst,  an  idealist,  a  scorner  of  the  impurities  of 
reality.  He  would  manifest  a  respectful  enthusiasm 
for  her,  like  that  of  a  man  who  dares  not  even  dream 
of  so  much  felicity. 

^'You'll  win,  Quentin,  you'll  win,"  he  said  to  him- 
self joyously.  "What  do  you  desire?  To  live  well,  to 
have  a  beautiful  home,  not  to  work.  Is  that  a  crime, 
forsooth?  And  if  it  were  a  crime,  then  what?  They 
do  not  carry  one  off  to  jail  for  that.  No.  You  are  a 
good  Boeotian,  a  good  swine  in  the  herd  of  Epicurus. 
You  were  not  born  for  the  base  bodily  wants  of  a  mer- 
chant. Dissemble  a  little,  my  son,  dissemble  a  little. 
Why  not  ?     Fortunately  for  you,  you  are  a  great  faker. ' ' 


CHAPTER  V 

NOBLE   AND   ANCIENT   ANCESTRAL   HOMES ! 

A  WEEK  later,  on  a  rainy  day  which  recalled 
that  of  his  first  visit,  Quentin  approached  the 
palace.  In  spite  of  his  Epicureanism  and 
his  Boeotianism,  he  dared  not  enter;  he  passed  by  with- 
out stopping  until  he  reached  the  Campo  de  la  Madre 
de  Dios. 

He  leaned  over  the  railing  on  the  river  bank.  The 
Guadalquivir  was  muddy,  clay-coloured :  some  fishermen 
in  black  boats  were  casting  their  nets  near  the  Martos 
dam  and  mill:  others,  with  poles,  perched  upon  the 
rocks  of  the  Murallón,  were  patiently  waiting  for  the 
shad  to  bite. 

Quentin  returned  to  the  Calle  del  Sol  disgusted  with 
his  weakness,  but  as  soon  as  he  reached  the  house,  his 
energy  again  disappeared.  Fortunately  for  him,  the 
man  who  had  opened  the  gate  for  him  a  few  days  be- 
fore was  seated  on  a  stone  bench  in  the  vestibule. 

**  Good-afternoon "  said  Quentin. 

**  Good-afternoon,  Señor.  Did  you  come  to  see  the 
Marquis  ? ' ' 

'^No;  I  was  just  out  for  a  waif 

** Won't  you  come  inT' 

''Very  well,  I'll  come  in  for  a  while." 

The  old  man  opened  the  gate,  shut  it  again,  and  they 

54 


ANCESTRAL  HOMES!  55 

went  down  the  long  gallery.  At  the  end  of  it,  after 
climbing  two  steps,  they  came  into  the  garden.  It  was 
large  and  beautiful:  the  walls  were  hidden  by  the  fan- 
shaped  foliage  of  the  orange  and  lemon  trees.  Close- 
trimmed  myrtles  lined  the  walks,  and  underfoot,  yellow 
and  green  moss  carpeted  the  stones. 

*'I  have  taken  care  of  this  garden  for  fifty  years," 
said  the  man. 

''Caramba!'' 

''Yes;  I  began  to  work  here  when  I  was  eight  or  ten 
years  old.  It  is  rather  neglected  now,  for  I  can 't  do 
much  any  more." 

''Why  are  those  orange  trees  in  the  centre  so  tall?" 

"Orange  trees  grow  taller  when  they  are  shut  in  like 
that  than  they  do  in  the  country,"  answered  the  gar- 
dener. 

"And  what  do  you  do  with  so  many  oranges?" 

"The  master  gives  them   away." 

At  one  end  of  the  garden  was  a  rectangular  pool.  On 
one  of  its  long  sides  rose  a  granite  pedestal  adorned  with 
large,  unpolished  urns  which  were  reflected  in  the  green- 
ish and  motionless  water. 

Quentin  was  contemplating  the  tranquil  water  of 
the  pool,  when  he  heard  the  halting  notes  of  a  Czerny 
etude  on  the  piano. 

"Who  is  playing?"  he  asked. 

"Señorita  Rafaela,  who  is  giving  her  sister  a  lesson. 
Why  don't  you  go  up?" 

"Why,  I  think  I  shall." 

And  with  throbbing  heart,  Quentin  left  the  garden 
and  climbed  the  stairs.  He  rang,  and  a  tall,  dried-up 
maid  led  him  through  several  rooms  until  he  reached 
one  in  which  Remedios  was  playing  the  piano  while 


66  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Rafaela,  just  behind  her,  was  beating  time  upon  an 
open  book  of  music. 

An  old  woman  servant  was  sewing  by  the  balcony 
window. 

Quentin  greeted  the  two  sisters,  and  Rafaela  said  to 
him: 

"You  haven't  been  here  for  several  days!  Grand- 
father has  asked  for  you  again  and  again." 

*' Really?"  asked  Quentin  idiotically. 

*'Yes,  many  times." 

**I  couldn't  come;  and  besides,  I  was  afraid  I  would 
be  an  annoyance,  that  I  would  bother  you." 

**For  goodness'  sake!" 

"Well,  you  see  you  have  already  stopped  the  lesson 
on  my  account." 

"No;  we  were  just  about  to  finish  anyway,"  said 
Remedios.  "Go  on,"  she  added,  turning  to  Rafaela, 
"why  don't  you  play  for  us?" 

"Oh!     Some  other  day." 

"No.     Do  play,"  urged  Quentin. 

"What  would  you  like  me  to  play?" 

"Anything  you  like." 

Rafaela  took  a  book,  placed  it  on  the  rack,  and  opened 
it. 

Quentin  could  read  the  word  Mozart  upon  the  cover. 
He  listened  to  the  sonata  in  silence:  he  did  not  know 
very  much  about  classical  music,  and  while  the  girl 
played,  he  was  thinking  about  the  most  appropriate  ex- 
clamation to  make  when  she  had  finished. 

"Oh!  Fine!  Fine!"  he  exclaimed.  "Whose  is 
that  delicious  music?" 

"It  is  Mozart's,"  replied  Rafaela. 

"It's  admirable!    Admirable!" 


ANCESTRAL  HOMES!  57 

''Don't  you  play  the  piano,  Quentin?" 

"Oh,  very  little.  Just  enough  to  accompany  myself 
when  I  sing." 

"Ah!     Then  you  sing?" 

"I  used  to  sing  a  little  in  school;  but  I  have  a  poor 
voice,  and  I  use  it  badly." 

"Very  well,  sing  for  us;  if  you  do  it  badly,  we'll  tell 
[    you,"  said  Rafaela. 

"Yes,  sing — do  sing!"  exclaimed  Remedios. 

Quentin  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  played  the  intro- 
ductory chords  of  Count  di  Luna 's  aria  in  II  Trovatore : 

II  halen  del  suo  sorriso 
d'una    Stella   vince   al   raggio. 

Then  he  began  to  sing  in  a  rich,  baritone  voice,  and 
as  he  reached  the  end  of  the  romanza,  he  imparted  an 
expression  of  profound  melancholy  to  it : 

Ah  Vamor,  V amove  ond'  ardo 

le  favelli  in  mio  favor 

sperda  il  sole  d'un  suo  sguardo 

la  tempesta,  ah!  ...  la  tempesta  del  mio  cor. 

And  he  repeated  the  phrase  with  an  accent  that  was 
more  and  more  expressive.  Any  one  listening  to  him 
would  have  said  that  truly,  la  tempesta  was  playing 
havoc  with  his  heart. 

"Very  good!  Very  good!"  cried  Rafaela.  Reme- 
dios applauded  gleefully. 

"It's  going  to  rain,"  announced  the  old  woman  serv- 
ant as  she  glanced  at  the  sky. 

"That's  because  I  did  so  badly,"  said  Quentin  with 
a  smile. 

They  went  to  the  window.  The  sky  was  darkening; 
it  was  beginning  to  rain.     The  heavy  drops  fell  in  ob- 


58  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

lique  lines  and  glistened  on  the  green  leaves  of  the 
orange  trees,  and  on  the  moss-covered  tiles;  the  con- 
tinuous splashing  of  the  drops  in  the  pool,  made  it  look 
as  if  it  were  boiling  .  .  . 

The  rain  soon  ceased,  the  sun  came  out,  and  the  whole 
garden  glowed  like  a  red-hot  coal;  the  oranges  shone 
among  the  damp  foliage;  the  green  hedge-mustard 
spotted  the  glittering  grey  roof  tiles  with  its  gay  note; 
water  poured  from  the  dark,  ancient  belfry  of  a  near-by 
tower ;  and  several  white  gardens  smiled  upon  the  moun- 
tain side. 

**That  is  a  regular  gipsy  sun,"  lisped  Remedios,  who 
at  times  had  an  exaggerated  Andalusian  pronunciation. 

Quentin  laughed;  the  little  girl's  manner  of  speech 
amused  him  immensely. 

' '  Don 't'  laugh, ' '  said  Rafaela  to  Quentin  with  mock 
gravity;  ''my  little  girl  is  very  sensitive." 

''What  did  you  say  to  him?"  demanded  Remedios  of 
her  sister. 

"Oh,  you  rascal!  He's  heard  it,  now,"  Rafaela  ex- 
claimed humorously;  and  seizing  the  child  about  the 
waist,  she  kissed  the  back  of  her  neck. 

It  was  beginning  to  clear  up;  the  dark  clouds  were 
moving  off,  leading  the  sky  clear;  a  ray  of  sunshine 
struck  a  tower  formed  by  three  arches  set  one  above  the 
other.  In  the  three  spaces,  they  could  see  the  motion- 
less bells ;  a  figure  of  San  Rafael  spread  its  wings  from 
the  peak  of  the  roof. 

"What  is  that  figure?"  asked  Quentin. 

"It  belongs  to  the  church  of  San  Pedro,"  replied  the 
servant. 

"Is  it  hollow  like  a  weather-vane?" 

"No;  I  think  it  is  solid." 


ANCESTRAL  HOMES !  59 

''It's  stopped  raining  now,"  said  Remedios.  "Have 
you  seen  the  house,  yet"  she  added,  turning  to  Quentin, 
and  using  the  familiar  second  person. 

''No,"  he  replied. 

"She  uses  'thou'  to  everybody,"  explained  Rafaela. 

They  left  the  music-room,  and  in  the  next  room,  they 
showed  Quentin  various  mirrors  with  bevelled  edges,  a 
glass  cabinet  full  of  miniatures  with  carved  frames  and 
antique  necklaces,  two  escritoires  inlaid  with  mother-of- 
pearl,  bright-coloured  majolica  ware,  and  pier-glasses 
with  thick  plates. 

"It  is  my  mother 's  room, ' '  said  Rafaela ;  " we 've  kept 
it  exactly  as  it  was  when  she  was  alive." 

"Did  she  die  very  long  ago?" 

"Six   years   ago." 

"Come  on,"  said  Remedios,  seizing  him  by  the  hand, 
and  looking  into  her  sister's  face  with  her  great,  restless 
eyes. 

The  three  descended  the  stairs  and  traversed  the 
gallery  that  connected  the  vestibule  with  the  garden. 
On  either  side  of  them  were  an  infinite  number  of 
rooms ;  some  large  and  dark,  with  wardrobes  and  furni- 
ture pushed  against  the  walls;  others  were  small,  with 
steps  leading  up  to  them.  At  the  end  of  the  gallery 
were  the  stables,  extremely  large,  with  barred  windows. 
They  entered. 

' '  Now  you  '11  see  what  kind  of  a  horse  we  have  here, ' ' 
said  Rafaela.  "Pajarito!  Pajarito!'*  she  called,  and  a 
little  donkey  which  was  eating  hay  in  a  comer  came 
running  up. 

In  the  same  stable  was  an  enormous  coach,  painted 
yellow,  very  ornate,  with  several  very  small  windows, 
and  the  family  coat-of-arms  on  the  doors. 


60  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

*' Grandfather  used  to  ride  in  this  coach,"  said 
Rafaela. 

' '  It  must  have  taken  more  than  two  horses  to  draw  it."  ^ 

**Yes;  they  used  eight." 

** These  girls  are  admirably  stoical,"  thought  Quentin. 

After  the  stables,  they  saw  the  corrals,  and  the  cellar, 
which  was  huge,  with  enormous  rain- water  jars  that 
looked  like  giants  buried  in  the  ground. 

'*We  can't  go  in  there,"  said  Rafaela  ironically. 

''Why  not?" 

''Because  this  little  idiot,"  and  she  seized  her  sister, 
"is  afraid  of  the  jars." 

Remedios  made  no  reply;  they  went  on;  through 
crooked  passages  that  were  full  of  hiding-places,  and 
labyrinthic  corridors,  until  they  came  to  a  large,  aban- 
doned garden. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  in?"  Rafaela  asked  Remedios. 

"Yes." 

"Aren't  you  afraid  of  the  genet  any  more?" 

"No." 

"What  is  it?"  inquired  Quentin. 

"The  gardener  keeps  a  caged  animal  in  here,  and  it 
frightens  us  because  it  looks  like  such  a  monster. ' ' 

"You're  a  naughty  girl,"  said  Remedios  to  her  sister. 
"What  will  you  bet  that  I  won't  go  to  the  genet,  take 
it  out  of  the  cage,  and  hold  it  in  my  hand?" 

"No,  no;  he  might  bite  you." 

"Where  is  this  monster?"  asked  Quentin. 

"You'll  soon  see." 

It  was  a  specie  of  weasel  with  a  long  tail  and  a  fierce 
eye. 

"The  animal  certainly  has  an  evil  look,"  said 
Quentin. 


ANCESTRAL  HOMES!  61 

They  walked  about  the  abandoned  garden:  a  thick 
carpet  of  burdock  and  henbane  and  foxglove  and  nettles 
covered  the  soil.  In  the  middle  of  the  garden,  sur- 
rounded by  a  circle  of  myrtles,  was  a  summer-house 
with  a  decayed  door ;  inside  of  it  they  could  see  remnants 
of  paint  and  gilt.  On  the  old  wall,  was  a  tangled 
growth  of  ivy.  Enveloped  in  its  foliage,  and  close  to 
the  wall,  they  could  make  out  a  fountain  with  a  Medusa 
head,  through  a  dirty  pipe  in  whose  mouth  flowed  a 
crystalline  thread  which  fell  sonorously  into  a  square 
basin  brimful  of  water.  There  were  two  broad,  moss- 
covered  steps  leading  up  to  the  fountain,  and  the  weeds 
and  wild  figs,  growing  in  the  cracks,  were  lifting  up  the 
stones.  From  among  the  weeds  there  rose  a  marble 
pedestal ;  and  a  wild-orange  tree  near  by,  with  its  little 
red  fruit,  seemed  spotted  with  blood. 

''There  are  all  sorts  of  animals  here  in  the  summer," 
said  Rafaela.  ''Lizards  come  to  drink  at  the  fountain. 
Some  of  them  are  very  beautiful  with  their  iridescent 
heads.  ^ ' 

"They  are  woman's  enemies,"  warned  Remedios. 

Quentin  laughed. 

"Some  of  the  foolishness  the  servant  girls  tell  her," 
explained  Rafaela.  "I've  forbidden  them  to  tell  her 
anything  now." 

The  three  returned  to  the  corridor. 

"What  about  the  roof?  We  haven't  showed  him  the 
roof,"  said  the  little  girl. 

"Juan  must  have  the  key;  I'll  go  and  ask  him  for 
it." 

Remedios  ran  out  in  search  of  the  gardener,  and  re- 
turned immediately. 


62  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

They  climbed  the  main  stairs  until  they  reached  a  door 
near  the  roof. 

*'What  panels!"  exclaimed  Quentin. 

''They  are  full  of  bats/'  said  Rafaela. 

"And  thalamanderth, "  lisped  Remedios. 

Quentin  suppressed  a  smile. 

"How  funny!  How  very  funny!"  murmured  the 
child  somewhat  piqued. 

"  I  am  not  laughing  at  what  you  said, ' '  replied  Quen- 
tin, "I  was  just  remembering  that  that  is  the  way  we 
boys  used  to  talk." 

"She  talks  like  the  rowdies  in  the  streets,"  said 
Rafaela. 

"Well,  I  don't  want  anything  more  from  you,"  cried 
Remedios.     "You're  always  saying  things  to  me." 

"Come,  girlie,  come;  the  genet  isn't  coming  here  to 
eat  you." 

"He  couldn't." 

From  the  door,  and  through  a  corridor,  they  came  out 
upon  a  broad,  tiled  terrace  with  an  iron  railing. 

"Let's  go  up  higher,"  said  Remedios. 

They  climbed  a  winding  staircase  inside  a  tower  until 
they  came  out  upon  a  small  azotea,  whence  they  could 
command  a  view  of  nearly  the  entire  city. 

The  wind  was  blowing  strongly.  From  that  height, 
they  could  see  Cordova,  a  great  pile  of  grey  roofs  and 
white  walls,  between  which  they  could  make  out  the 
alleys,  which  looked  like  crooked  lines  inundated  with 
light.  Sierra  Morena  appeared  in  the  background  like 
a  dark  wave,  and  its  round  peaks  were  outlined  in  a 
gentle  undulation  against  the  sky,  which  was  cloudless. 
The  gardens  stood  out  very  white  against  the  skirts  of 


I 


ANCESTRAL  HOMES !  63 

the  mountain,  and  upon  a  sharp-pointed  hill  at  the  foot 
of  the  dark  mountain  wall,  stood  a  rocky  castle. 

Toward  Cordova  la  Vieja,  pastures  glistened,  a  lumi- 
nous green;  in  the  country,  the  sown  ground  stretched 
out  until  it  was  lost  in  the  distance,  interrupted  here  and 
there  by  some  brown  little  hill  covered  with  olive  trees. 

* '  I  'm  going  to  fetch  the  telescope, ' '  announced  Reme- 
dios suddenly. 

''Don't  fall,"  warned  her  sister. 

Rafaela  and  Quentin  were  left  alone. 

''How  charming  your  sister  is,"  said  he. 

"Yes;  she's  as  clever  as  a  squirrel,  but  more  sensitive 
than  any  one  I  know.     The  slightest  thing  offends  her. ' ' 

"Perhaps  you  have  petted  her  too  much?" 

"Of  course.  I  am  years  older  than  she.  She  is  like 
a  daughter  to  me." 

"You  must  be  very  fond  of  her." 

"Yes;  I  put  her  to  bed  and  to  sleep  even  yet.  Some- 
times she  has  fits  of  temper  over  nothing  at  all!  But 
she  has  a  heart  of  gold. ' ' 

At  this  point  the  little  girl  returned,  carrying  a  tele- 
scope bigger  than  she  was. 

"What  a  tiny  girl!"  exclaimed  Rafaela,  taking  the 
telescope  from  Remedios. 

They  rested  the  instrument  on  the  wall  of  the  azotea 
and  took  turns  looking  through  it. 

The  afternoon  was  steadily  advancing;  yellow  towers 
and  pink  belfries  rose  above  the  wet  roofs,  their  glass 
windows  brilliant  in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun;  a 
broad,  slate-covered  cupola  outlined  its  bulk  against  the 


6é  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

horizon ;  here  and  there  a  cypress  rose  like  a  black  pyra- 
mid between  great,  white  walls,  and  the  thousands  of 
grey  tiled  roofs;  and  the  iron  weather-vanes,  some  in 
the  shape  of  a  peaceable  San  Rafael,  others  in  the  form 
of  a  rampant  dragon  with  fierce  claws  and  pointed 
tongue,  surmounted  the  gables  and  sheds,  and  decorated 
the  ancient  belfries,  covered  with  a  greenish  rust  by  the 
sun  of  centuries  .  .  . 

Toward  the  west,  the  sky  was  touched  with  rose; 
flaming  clouds  sailed  over  the  mountain.  The  sun  had 
set;  the  fire  of  the  clouds  changed  to  scarlet,  to  mother- 
of-pearl,  to  cold  ashes.  Black  night  already  lurked  in 
the  city  and  in  the  fields.  The  wind  commenced  to  mur- 
mur in  the  trees,  shaking  the  window  blinds  and  cur- 
tains, and  rapidly  drying  the  roofs.  A  bell  clanged,  and 
its  solemn  sound  filled  the  silent  atmosphere. 

Slowly  the  sky  was  invaded  by  a  deep  blue,  dark  pur- 
ple in  some  places;  Jupiter  shone  from  his  great  height 
with  a  silver  light,  and  night  took  possession  of  the  land ; 
a  clear,  starry  night,  that  seemed  the  pale  continuation 
of  the  twilight. 

From  the  house  garden  arose  a  fresh  perfume  of 
myrtles  and  oranges;  of  the  exhalations  of  plants  and 
damp  earth. 

**We  must  go  now,"  said  Rafaela.  *'It*s  getting 
cold." 

They  descended  the  stairs.  Quentin  took  leave  of  the 
two  girls  and  stepped  into  the  street. 


CHAPTER  VI 

CONCERNING  AN  ADVENTURE  OF  QUENTIN'S  IN  THE  NEIGH- 
BOURHOOD  OF   EL   POTRO 

FOR  a  whole  week  Quentin  walked  through  the 
Calle  del  Sol  day  and  night,  hoping  to  see  Rafa- 
ela without  going  to  her  house.  It  did  not  seem 
expedient  to  him  to  call  again  so  soon ;  he  was  afraid  of 
being  considered  inopportune;  and  he  would  have  liked 
it  had  chance — more  apparent  than  real — granted  him 
a  meeting  with  Rafaela  while  he  was  strolling  about  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  palace. 

One  warm  night  in  January,  Quentin  left  his  house 
with  the  intention  of  walking  by  the  palace  in  the  Calle 
del  Sol. 

It  was  a  beautiful,  serene  night,  without  a  breath  of 
air  stirring.  The  great,  round  face  of  the  moon  was 
shining  high  overhead,  its  light  dividing  the  streets  into 
two  zones — one  white,  and  the  other  bluish  black. 

Some  of  the  plazas  seemed  covered  with  snow,  so 
white  were  the  walls  of  the  houses  and  the  stones  of  the 
pavements. 

Absently  strolling  along,  Quentin  approached  the 
Mosque ;  its  walls  rose  as  solemn  and  black  as  those  of  a 
fortress;  above,  their  serrated  battlements,  the  moon 
floated  giddily  in  the  deep,  veiled  blue  of  the  sky. 

"All  this  contains  something  of  the  stuff  that  dreams 
are  made  of,"  he  thought.  ■• 


66  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

No  one  was  passing  there,  and  his  footsteps  echoed 
loudly  on  the  pavement. 

Quentin  started  toward  El  Potro  in  order  to  reach 
the  Calle  del  Sol,  which  was  nearly  at  the  other  end  of 
the  town,  and  he  was  thinking  of  the  thousand  and  one 
possibilities,  both  for  and  against  his  plans,  when  a  little 
hunchback  boy  came  running  up  to  him,  and  said: 

*'A  little  alms,  Señorito,  my  mother  and  I  have  noth-^ 
ing  to  eat/' 

"You  come  out  at  this  time  of  night  to  ask  alms!"    ^ 
murmured  Quentin.     *'You'll  have  a  fine  time  finding 
any  people  here/' 

''But  my  mother  has  fainted." 

''Where  is  she?"  1 

"Here,  in  this  street." 

Quentin  entered  a  dark  alley,  and  had  no  sooner  done    l 
so,  than  he  felt  himself  seized  by  his  arms  and  legs,  and 
tied  by  his  elbows,  and  then  blind-folded  with  a  hand-    i 
kerchief. 

"What's  this?  What  do  you  want  of  me?"  he  ex- 
claimed, trying  vainly  to  disengage  himself.  "I'll  give 
you  all  the  money  I  have."  i 

"Shut  up,"  said  a  gruff  voice  with  a  gipsy  accent,    i 
"and  come  with  us —    Somebody  wants  to  settle  a  little 
account  with  you." 

"With  me!  Nobody  has  any  accounts  to  settle  with 
me." 

"Be  quiet,  my  friend,  and  let's  be  going." 

"Very  well;  but  take  off  the  handkerchief;  I'll  go    i 
wherever  you  tell  me  to." 

"It  can't  be  done." 

When  Quentin  found  that  he  was  overpowered,  he 
felt  the  blood  rush  to  his  head  with  anger.     He  began  to 


AN  ADVENTURE  OF  QUENTIN'S  67 

stumble  along.  When  he  had  gone  about  twenty  paces, 
he  stopped. 

''I  said  that  I  would  go  wherever  he  is." 

'^No,  Señor. '^ 

Quentin  settled  himself  firmly  on  his  left  leg,  and  with 
his  right,  kicked  in  the  direction  whence  he  had  heard 
the  voice.  There  was  a  dull  thud  as  a  body  struck  the 
ground. 

"Ay!  Ay!"  groaned  a  voice.  ''He  hit  me  on  the 
hip.     Ay!" 

''You'll  either  go  on,  or  I'll  knock  your  brains  out," 
said  the  gipsy's  voice. 

"But  why  don't  you  take  off  this  handkerchief?" 
vociferated  Quentin. 

"In  a  minute." 

Quentin  went  on  stumblingly,  and  they  made  several 
turns.  He  was  not  sufficiently  acquainted  with  the 
streets  near  El  Potro  to  get  his  bearings  as  he  went 
along.  After  a  quarter  of  an  hour  had  elapsed,  the 
gipsies  stopped  and  made  Quentin  enter  the  door  of 
a  house. 

"Here's  your  man,"  said  the  voice  of  the  gipsy. 

"Good,"  said  a  vigorous  and  haughty  voice.  "Turn 
him  loose." 

"He  wounded  Mochuelo  bad,"  added  the  gipsy. 

"Was  he  armed?" 

"No,  but  he  gave  him  a  kick  that  smashed  him." 

' '  Good.  Take  off  the  handkerchief  so  we  can  see  each 
other  face  to  face." 

Quentin  felt  th,em  remove  his  bandage,  and  found  him- 
self in  a  patio  before  a  pale,  blond,  little  man,  with  a 
decisive  manner,  and  a  calañés  hat  on  his  head.  The 
moonlight  illuminated  the  patio;  jardinieres  and  flower- 


68  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

pots  hung  upon  the  walls;  and  overhead,  in  the  space 
between  the  roofs,  gleamed  the  milky  veil  of  the  blue 
night  sky. 

''Whom  have  you  brought  me?"  exclaimed  the  little 
man.     ''This  isn't  the  sergeant." 

"Well!  So  it  isn't!  We  must  have  made  a  mis- 
take." 

"You  are  lucky  to  have  escaped,  my  friend,"  ex- 
claimed the  little  man,  turning  to  Quentin.  ' '  If  you  had 
been  the  sergeant,  they  would  have  had  to  pick  you  up 
in  pieces." 

"Bah!  It  wouldn't  be  that  bad,"  said  Quentin  as 
he  gazed  in  disgust  at  the  boastful  little  man. 

"Wouldn't  it?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"Do  you  know  to  whom  you  are  speaking?" 

"No;  and  the  most  curious  thing  about  it  is  that  I 
don't  care.  Still,  if  you  want  us  two  to  fight  it  out 
alone,  come  with  me,  and  we'll  see  if  it  is  your  turn  to 
win  or  to  lose." 

"I  never  lose,  young  man." 

"Neither  do  I,"  replied  Quentin. 

"We'll  have  to  give  this  lad  a  lesson,"  said  the  gipsy, 
* '  to  teach  him  how  to  talk  to  quality  folk. ' ' 

"Be  quiet,  Cantarote,"  said  the  little  man  in  the 
calañés.  "This  gentleman  is  a  man,  and  talks  like  a 
man,  and  we  are  going  to  drink  a  few  glasses  this  very 
minute  to  celebrate  our  meeting." 

"That's  the  way  to  talk,"  said  Quentin. 

"Well,  come  on.     This  way,  please." 

Quentin  followed  the  little  fellow  through  a  small 
door  and  down  three  or  four  steps  to  a  corridor,  through 
which  they  reached  a  dark  cellar.     It  was  dimly  lighted 


AN  ADVENTURE  OF  QUENTIN'S  69 

by  several  lamps  which  hung  on  wires  from  the  ceiling. 
Seated  upon  benches  about  a  long,  greasy  table,  were 
gathered  a  dozen  or  so  persons,  of  whom  the  majority 
were  playing  cards,  and  the  rest  drinking  and  chatting. 
Upon  entering  the  cellar,  Quentin  and  the  little  man  in 
the  calañés  made  their  way  to  a  small  table,  and  sat 
down  facing  each  other.  The  blackened  lamp,  hanging 
by  a  wire  from  a  beam  in  the  ceiling,  distilled  a  greenish 
oil  drop  by  drop,  which  fell  upon  the  greasy  table. 

The  little  man  ordered  the  innkeeper  to  bring  two 
glasses  of  white  wine,  and  while  they  waited,  Quentin 
observed  him  closely.  He  was  a  blond  individual,  pale, 
with  blue  eyes,  and  slender,  well-kept  hands.  To  Quen- 
tin's  scrutinizing  glance,  he  responded  with  another, 
cool  and  clear,  without  flinching. 

At  this  point,  a  queer,  ugly-looking  man  who  was 
talking  impetuously,  and  showing  huge,  yellow,  horse- 
like teeth,  came  toward  the  table  and  said  to  Quentin 's 
companion : 

''Who  is  this  bird,  Señor  José?" 

''This  'bird,'  "  replied  the  other,  "is  a  hard-headed 
bull — understand? —    The  best  there  is." 

"Well,  that's  better." 

Quentin  smiled  as  he  gazed  at  the  man  who  had  called 
him  a  bird.  He  was  an  individual  of  indefinite  age, 
clean-shaven,  a  mixture  of  a  barber  and  a  sacristan, 
with  a  forehead  so  low  that  his  hair  served  him  as  eye- 
brows, and  with  a  jaw  like  a  monkey's. 

"And  this  chap,  who  is  he?"  asked  Quentin  in  turn, 

"He?  He  is  one  of  the  most  shameless  fellows  in  the 
world.  He  wanders  about  these  parts  to  &ee  if  they 
won't  give  him  a  few  pennies.  Though  he  is  old  and 
musty,  you  will  always  find  him  with  sporting  women 


10  THE  CITY  OP  THE  DISCREET 

and  happy-go-lucky  folk.  Ask  any  one  in  Cordova 
about  Currito  Martin,  and  no  matter  where  you  are,  they 
can  tell  you  who  he  is." 

*'Not  everywhere.  Señor  José,"  replied  Currito,  who 
had  listened  impassively  to  the  panegyric,  gesticu- 
lating with  a  hand  whose  fingers  resembled  vine- 
creepers.  **If  you  should  ask  the  Bishop,  he  would  not 
know  me." 

''Well,  I  would  have  taken  him  for  a  sacristan,"  said 
Quentin. 

"I'm  a  sacristan  of  blackbirds  and  martens,  if  you 
must  know,"  said  Currito  somewhat  piqued.  "The 
only  places  where  I  am  known  are  the  taverns,  the  huts 
in  the  Calle  de  la  Feria,  and  the  Higuerilla." 

"And  that's  enough,"  said  one  of  the  card-players. 

"That's  right." 

Two  of  the  onlookers  got  up  from  the  bench  and  began 
to  chaff  Currito.  The  sly  rascal  was  at  home  among 
jests,  and  he  answered  the  repartee  that  they  directed 
at  him  with  great  impudence. 

"That's  a  fine  amber  cigarette-holder,  Currito,"  said 
one  of  them. 

"The  Marquis,"  he  replied. 

"A  fine  little  cape,  old  boy,"  said  the  other,  turning 
over  the  muffler  of  the  scoundrel's  cloak. 

"The  Marquis,"  he  repeated. 

"This  Currito,"  said  Señor  José,  "hasn't  an  ounce  of 
shame  in  him ;  for  a  long  time  he  has  lived  on  his  wife, 
who  is  kept  by  a  marquis,  and  he  has  the  nerve  to  brag 
about  it.     Come  here,  Currito." 

Currito  came  to  their  table. 

"Why  do  you  keep  boasting  about  your  shame?" 
asked  Señor  José.    "Don't  you  do  it  again  in  front  of 


AN  ADVENTURE  OF  QUENTIN'S  71 

me.  Do  you  understand?  If  you  do,  I'll  skin  you 
alive." 

''Very  well,  Señor  José." 

''Come,  have  a  glass,  and  then  see  if  La  Generosa  is 
in  any  of  the  rooms  here. ' ' 

Currito  emptied  the  wine-glass,  wiped  his  mouth  on 
the  back  of  his  hand,  and  left  the  cellar. 

"Are  you  a  foreigner?"  Señor  José  asked  Quentin. 

"I  was  educated  outside  of  Spain." 

"Will  you  be  in  Cordova  for  some  time?" 

"I  think  so." 

"Well,  I'm  glad,  because  I  like  you." 

"Many  thanks." 

"I'll  tell  you  who  I  am,  and  if  after  that,  it  doesn^t 
seem  a  bad  idea  to  you,  we'll  be  friends." 

"Before,  too." 

"No,  not  before.  I  am  Pacheco,  the  horseman,  or 
rather  Pacheco,  the  bandit.  Now,  if  you  care  to  be 
Pacheco 's  friend,  here's  my  hand." 

"Here  is  mine." 

"Well,  you're  a  brave  chap,"  exclaimed  Pacheco. 
"That's  the  way  I  like  to  have  a  fellow  act.  Listen: 
any  time  you  need  me,  you  will  find  me  here,  in  El 
Cuervo's  tavern.  Now  let's  see  what  these  lads  are 
talking  about." 

Pacheco  got  up,  and  followed  by  Quentin,  went  over 
to  the  card-players'  table. 

"Hello,  Pajaróte!"  said  Pacheco  to  the  banker. 

"Hello,  Señor  José!  Were  you  here?  I  didn't  see 
you." 

"What's  doing  in  Seville  and  the  low  country?" 

"Nothing.  ...  It's  pretty  slow.  Everj^thing  is 
closed  by  hunger  and  poverty,  and  here  I  am  with  these 


72  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

thieves  who  would  even  steal  a  man's  breath.  .  .  .  Why, 
I  'm  beginning  to  lose  faith  even  in  San  Rafael  himself. ' ' 

**Now  youVe  spoiled  my  luck,  comrade,"  said  one  of 
the  players,  throwing  down  his  cards  angrily.  ''What 
business  did  you  have  ringing  in  that  angel?  Look 
here,  I  'm  not  going  to  play  any  more. ' ' 

Pajaróte  smiled.  He  was  a  scoundrel  and  a  card 
sharp,  and  he  always  took  delight  in  pretending  to  be 
unlucky  while  he  was  cleaning  his  friends  of  their 
money.     He  dealt  the  cards. 

''I'll  bet,"  said  a  man  with  one  eye  higher  than  the 
other  whom  they  called  Charpaneja,  in  the  thin  voice  of 
a  hunchback. 

"I'll  bet  six,"  gruffly  replied  a  charcoal-burner  nick- 
named El  Torrezno. 

More  cards  were  tossed  upon  the  table,  and,  as  be- 
fore. Pajaróte  won. 

"I  don't  want  to  play,"  squeaked  Charpaneja. 

"Why  not?"  asked  the  banker. 

"Because  your  hands  are  always  lucky." 

"The  fact  is,  you  haven't  any  spirit,"  replied  Paja- 
róte coldly.  "You  start  out  like  a  Cordovese  colt,  and 
quit  like  a  donkey  of  La  Mancha." 

At  this  point  Currito  returned,  and  coming  up  to 
Señor  José,  said: 

"La  Generosa  hasn't  come  yet,  but  Señora  Rosario 
with  her  two  girls,  and  Don  Gil  Sabadla  are  in  the  next 
room." 

"Well,  let's  go  in,"  said  Pacheco. 

He  and  Quentin  again  came  out  into  the  patio,  and 
entered  a  room  illuminated  by  a  brass  lamp  set  upon  a 
round  table.  By  the  light  of  the  lamp  he  could  see  a 
frightful-looking  old  woman  with  a  hooked  nose  and 


AN  ADVENTURE  OF  QUENTIN'S  73 

moles  on  her  chin,  two  young  girls  with  flowers  in  their 
hair,  and  a  bushy-haired  old  man  with  a  long  beard. 

''The  peace  of  God  be  with  you,"  said  Pacheco  as  he 
entered.  ''How  is  Don  Gil?  Good  evening.  Señora 
Rosario;  what's  the  news?" 

' '  Nothing :  we  just  came  here  so  these  girls  could  have 
a  drink  of  something." 

"You  mean  these  rosebuds,"  interrupted  Currito. 

' '  Thanks,  Currito, ' '  said  one  of  the  girls  with  a  smile. 

"Child!"  exclaimed  Pacheco,  "be  very  careful  of 
Currito,  for  he 's  dangerous. ' ' 

' ' He ! ' '  replied  the  old  woman,  "he  is  already  among 
the  down-and-outs." 

"I'm  like  the  old  guide  in  the  Mosque,"  replied  Cur- 
rito. "Every  time  he  saw  me,  he  used  to  say,  'Let  me 
have  an  old  suit  of  clothes — I  'm  more  dead  than  alive. '  ' ' 

"Heavens!  What  little  wit  you  have!"  said  one  of 
the  girls  with  a  gesture  of  contempt. 

"Well,  I  live  by  my  wits,  my  girl,"  answered  Currito, 
piqued. 

"Then,  confound  them,  my  man,"  she  replied  with 
the  same  gesture  of  contempt. 

Currito  peevishly  fell  silent,  and  Pacheco  presented 
Quentin  to  the  bushy-haired  man. 

"This  gentleman,"  and  he  indicated  Quentin,  "is  a 
brave  chap  whom  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
this  evening  by  mistake.  This  man,"  and  he  nodded  to 
the  old  man  with  the  long  beard,  "is  Don  Gil  Sabadla, 
the  only  person  in  Cordova  who  knows  the  history  of 
every  street,  alley,  and  by-way  in  the  city. ' ' 

"Not  as  much  as  that,  man,  not  as  much  as  that,"  said 
Don  Gil  with  a  smile. 

"If  there  is  anything  you  don*t  know,"  Pacheco  went 


74  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

on,  *' nobody  in  Cordova  knows  it.  Well,  if  you  and  the 
girls  would  like  to  drink  a  bottle  of  the  best  Montilla, 
I'll  treat.'' 

''Accepted." 

*' Cuervo!"  shouted  Pacheco,  stepping  outside  the 
door. 

The  innkeeper  appeared;  a  man  of  some  fifty  years, 
stoop-shouldered,  ill-shaven,  with  hatchet-shaped  side 
whiskers,  and  a  red  sash  about  his  waist. 

* '  What  does  Señor  José  wish  ? "  he  inquired. 

*  *  Bring  a  few  bottles  of  your  best. ' ' 

While  they  were  waiting  for  the  wine,  the  ill-tem- 
pered girl  and  Currito  resumed  their  quarrel. 

''Look  out  for  that  girl,"  said  Currito,  "she  hasn't 
much  sense. ' ' 

"Did  anybody  speak?"  she  asked  in  disgust. 

"I  believe  the  girl  is  suffering  from  jaundice." 

"My  goodness!  What  a  bad-tempered  old  uncle  he 
is!"  said  she. 

"Listen,  my  child,"  continued  Currito,  "I'm  going 
to  make  you  a  present  of  a  sugar-plum  to  see  if  we  can't 
sweeten  your  mouth." 

"Currito,  we  don't  need  any  sugar  around  here," 
answered  the  other  girl  easily. 

"Girls!  There's  no  need  of  getting  scared,"  said 
the  old  woman  in  a  gruff  voice. 

"I've  left  her  hanging  like  a  fresco  painting,  haven't 
I?"  Currito  remarked  to  Quentin. 

"I've  never  noticed  that  fresco  paintings  were  hung." 

"He's  a  fool,"  explained  the  contemptuous  girl. 

The  innkeeper  arrived  with  the  bottle  and  the  glasses, 
and  Currito  seized  the  former  and  served  every  one. 

"You  know  so  much,  Don  Gil,  what  will  you  bet  that 


AN  ADVENTURE  OF  QUENTIN'S  75 

you  don't  know  what  that  Italian  bishop  said  when  he 
saw  the  Mosque?"  said  Currito. 

' '  What  did  he  say  ?  Let 's  hear  it  ? "  inquired  Don  Gil 
with  an  ironic  smile. 

"Well,  the  canon  Espejito  went  up  to  him,  and  point- 
ing out  the  Christ  of  the  Column,  explained  to  him  how 
it  was  made:  *A  prisoner  made  that  Christ  with  his 
finger-nails, '  and  the  Bishop  said  to  him,  '  The  man  who 
did  it  must  have  had  good  nails.'  " 

''He  must  be  a  heretic,"  said  Señora  Rosario. 

* '  And  who  told  you  that  fake  ? ' '  asked  Don  Gil. 
;    "El  Mo j i  told  me." 

"Well,  he  fooled  you  like  a  Chinaman." 
'    "No,  sir,  he  did  not  fool  me,"  replied  Currito.     "El 
Moji  was  a  man's  man,  El  Moji  never  lied,  and  El 
Moji  .  .  ." 
■t    "But  you  are  trying  to  tell  me  what  the  Bishop  said, 
*  when  I  was  there  at  the  time, ' '  exclaimed  Don  Gil. 

"You  there!  Why^  it  was  the  time  you  went  to 
Seville!" 

"Very  well,   I  was  not  there.     Bias   told   me,   and 
there 's  an  end  to  it. ' ' 
||     * '  But  of  what  importance  is  all  this  ? ' '  asked  Quentin. 

"Let  them  be,"  interrupted  the  ill-tempered  girl; 
' '  they  're  two  disagreeable  old  uncles ! ' ' 

"Don  Gil,"  said  Pacheco,  smiling  and  winking  his 
eye,  "permits  no  one  to  be  informed  of  anything  he 
does  not  know  about  himself. ' ' 

"Well,  what  will  you  bet,"  Currito  presently  broke 
out,  "that  you  dpn't  know  what  El  Golotino  said  when 
he  had  the  lawsuit  with  El  Mañano?" 

"Let's  hear,  let's  hear.  This  is  most  important,"  re- 
marked Pacheco. 


76  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

"Well,  there  isn't  much  to  it.  El  Golotino,  as  you 
know,  had  a  herd  of  a  couple  of  dozen  goats,  and  El 
Mañano,  who  was  a  charcoal-burner,  had  rented  a  hill; 
and  to  find  out  whether  the  goats  had  wandered  on  the 
hill  or  not,  they  had  a  lawsuit,  which  El  Golotino  lost. 
Don  Nicanor,  the  clerk,  was  making  an  inventory  of  the 
property  of  the  owner  of  the  goats,  and  was  adding: 
'two  and  four  are  six,  and  four  are  ten — carry  one; 
fourteen  and  six  are  twenty,  and  three  are  twenty- 
three — carry  two ;  twenty-seven  and  eight  are  thirty-five, 
and  six  are  forty-one — carry  four.'  El  Golotino 
thought  that  when  the  clerk  said,  'carry  one,'  he  meant 
that  he  was  going  to  carry  off  one  goat,  so  he  shouted 
tearfully:  'Well,  for  that,  you  can  carry  off  the  whole 
bunch  of  them!'  " 

"That  is  not  the  way  it  was,"  Señor  Sabadla  started 
to  remark,  but  every  one  burst  out  laughing. 

"Come,  girls,  we  must  go  home,"  announced  Señora 
Rosario. 

"I'm  going  out,"  said  Don  Gil,  annoyed  by  the 
laughter. 

"I  am  too,"  added  Quentin. 

They  took  leave  of  Pacheco,  and  the  innkeeper  ac- 
companied the  three  women  and  the  two  men  to  the 
door  with  the  lamp.  They  went  through  several  alleys 
and  came  out  in  the  lower  part  of  the  Calle  de  la  Feria. 
They  stopped  before  a  miserable  white  hut,  the  old 
woman  knocked  on  the  door  with  her  knuckles,  it  was 
opened  from  within,  and  Señora  Rosario  and  the  three 
girls  entered.  Through  a  small  window  next  the  door 
could  be  seen  a  very  small,  whitewashed  room,  with  a 


I 


AN  ADVENTURE  OF  QUENTIN'S  77 

glazed  tile  pedestal,  a  varnished  bureau,  and  flower-pots 
full  of  paper  flowers. 

''What  a  cage!     What  a  tiny  house!"  said  Quentin. 

''AH  the  houses  on  this  side  of  the  street  are  like 
this,"  answered  Señor  Sabadla. 

"Why?" 

"On  account  of  the  wall." 

"Ah!     Was  there  a  wall  here?" 

' '  Of  course !  The  wall  that  separated  the  upper  city 
from  the  lower.  The  upper  city  was  called  Almádina, 
and  the  lower,  Ajerquia." 

"That's  curious." 

They  walked  up  the  Calle  de  la  Feria.  The  sloping 
street,  with  its  tall,  white  houses  bathed  in  the  moon- 
light, presented  a  fantastic  appearance;  the  two  lines 
of  roofs  were  outlined  against  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
broken  here  and  there  by  the  azoteas  on  some  of  the 
houses. 

"Oh,  yes,"  continued  the  archaeologist,  "this  wall 
used  to  extend  from  the  Cruz  del  Rastro,  to  the  Cuesta 
de  Lujan;  then  it  stretched  on  through  the  Calle  de  la 
Zapatería  and  the  Cuesta  del  Bailío,  until  it  reached  the 
tower  on  the  Puerta  del  Rincón,  where  it  ended.  *  * 

"  So  it  cut  the  town  in  two,  and  one  could  not  go  from 
one  side  to  the  other  ?     That  was  nice ! ' ' 

"No.  What  nonsense!  There  were  gates  to  go 
through.  Up  there  near  the  Arquillo  de  Calceteros,  was 
the  Puerta  de  la  Almádina,  which  in  the  time  of  the 
Romans,  was  called  Piscatoria,  or  Fish  Gate.  The 
Portillo  did  not  exist,  and  when  they  built  against  the 
wall,  in  the  place  it  now  occupies,  there  stood  a  house 
which  the  city  bought  in  1496  from  its  owner,  Francisco 


78  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Sánchez  Torquemada,  in  order  to  open  up  an  arch  in  the 
wall.  This  data, ' '  added  Don  Gil  confidentially,  ' '  comes 
from  an  original  manuscript  which  is  preserved  in  the 
City  Hall.     It's  curious,  isn't  it?" 

''Most  curious." 

They  climbed  the  Cuesta  de  Lujan.  The  neighbouring 
streets  were  deserted;  within  some  of  the  houses  they 
could  hear  the  vague  sound  of  guitars ;  lovers  whispered 
to  each  other  at  the  grated  windows. 

' '  See  ? ' '  said  Don  Gil,  looking  toward  the  lower  end  of 
the  Calle  de  la  Feria,  ''the  fosses  of  the  wall  followed 
the  line  the  moon  makes  in  the  street. ' ' 

"Very  interesting,"  murmured  Quentin. 

"Have  you  noticed  how  high  the  houses  are  in  this 
street?" 

' '  Yes,  indeed ;  why  is  that  ? " 

' '  For  two  reasons, ' '  answered  Don  Gil,  turned  dominie. 
"First,  to  gain  the  height  the  wall  deprived  them  of; 
and  second,  because  in  times  gone  by,  the  majority  of  the 
spectacles  were  celebrated  here.  Here  is  where  execu- 
tions were  held;  where  they  baited  bulls;  and  broke 
lances;  and  where,  during  the  week  preceding  the  Day 
of  the  Virgin  of  Linares,  the  hosiers  held  a  grand  fair. 
That  is  why  there  are  so  many  windows  and  galleries  in 
these  houses,  and  why  the  street  is  called  the  Calle  de 
la  Feria." 

The  archaeologist  seized  Quentin 's  arm  and  proceeded 
to  relate  several  stories  and  legends  to  him.  The  two 
men  traversed  narrow  alleys,  and  plazoletas  lined  with 
white  houses  with  blue  doors. 

"You  know  no  one  here?"  inquired  the  archaeologist. 

"Not  a  soul." 

"Absolutely  no  onet" 


I 


AN  ADVENTURE  OF  QUENTIN'S  79 

'*No.  That  is  .  .  .  I  know  a  Cordova  boy  who  was 
educated  with  me  in  England.  His  name  is  .  .  . 
Quentin  Garcia  Roelas.     Do  you  know  him?'' 

"Not  him;  but  I  know  his  family." 

**He  is  a  silent,  taciturn  chap.  It  seems  to  me  that 
there  is  something  unusual  connected  with  his  life.  I  've 
heard  something  ..." 

''Yes,  there  is  an  interesting  story." 

''Do  you  know  it?" 

*'0f  course,"  replied  Don  Gil. 

"But  you  are  so  discreet  that  you  will  not  tell  itT' 

"Naturally." 

"Very  well,  Don  Gil.  I'm  going;  I'm  sorry  to  leave 
your  agreeable  company,  but  ..." 

"Must  you  go?" 

"Yes,  I  must." 

"My  dear  man;  don't  go.  I  must  show  you  a  most 
interesting  spot,  with  a  history  ..." 

"No,  I" cannot." 

"I'll  take  you  to  a  place  that  you  will  have  to  like." 

"No,  you  must  excuse  me." 

"Moreover,  I'll  tell  you  the  story  of  your  friend  and 
schoolmate. ' ' 

"You  see  .  .  ." 

"It's  early  yet.     It's  not  more  than  one  o'clock." 

"Very  well,  we'll  go  wherever  you  say." 

They  passed  through  very  nearly  the  whole  city  until 
they  came  to  the  Paseo  del  Gran  Capitán. 

"What  a  city  this  is!"  exclaimed  Don  Gil.  "They 
can 't  talk  to  me  about  Granada  or  Seville ;  for  look  you, 
Granada  has  three  aspects:  the  Alhambra,  the  Puerta 
Real,  and  the  Albaicin — three  distinct  things.  Seville 
is  larger  than  Cordova,  but  it  is  already  more  cosmo- 


1 


80  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

politan — it's  like  Madrid.  But  not  so  Cordova.  Cor- 
dova is  one  and  indivisible.  Cordova  is  her  own  sauce. 
She  is  a  city.*' 

From  the  Paseo  del  Gran  Capitán,  they  followed  Los 
Tejares,  and  on  the  right  hand  side,  Señor  Sabadla 
paused  before  some  little  houses  that  were  huddled  close 
to  a  serrated  wall.  There  were  four  of  them,  very  small, 
very  white,  each  with  only  one  story,  and  all  closed  up 
except  one,  which  merely  had  its  door  shut. 

* '  Read  this  placard, ' '  said  Don  Gil,  pointing  to  a  sign 
in  a  frame  hanging  on  one  side  of  the  door. 

Quentin  read  by  the  light  of  the  moon: 

Patrocinio  de  la  Mata  dresses 
corpses  at  all  hours  of  the  day 
or  of  the  night  in  which  she  is 
notified,  at  very  regular  prices. 

**The  devil!  What  a  lugubrious  sign!'*  exclaimed 
Quentin  after  reading  it. 

' '  Do  you  see  this  hut  ? ' '  asked  Don  Gil.  *  *  Well,  every 
intrigue  that  God  ever  turned  loose,  goes  on  here.  But 
let  us  go  in.'' 

They  entered,  and  a  cracked  voice  shouted: 

''Who  is  it?'' 

'*I,  Señora  Patrocinio,  Don  Gil  Sabadla,  who  comes 
with  a  friend.  Bring  a  light,  for  we're  going  to  stay 
a  while." 

'*One  moment." 

The  old  woman  descended  with  a  lamp  in  her  hand, 
and  led  the  two  men  into  a  small  parlour  where  there  was 
a  strong  odour  of  lavender.  She  placed  the  lamp  on  the 
table  and  said : 

''What  do  you  want!" 


AN  ADVENTURE  OF  QUENTIN'S  81 

**Some  small  olives,  and  a  little  wine." 
The  old  woman  opened  a  cupboard,  took  out  a  dish  of 
olives,  another  of  biscuits,  and  two  bottles  of  wine. 
**Is  there  anything  else  you  want?" 
;      *  *  Nothing  more,  Señora  Patrocinio. ' ' 
I      The  old  woman  withdrew  and  shut  the  door. 
I      ' '  How  do  you  like  the  place,  eh  ? "  asked  Don  Gil. 
P      **  Magnificent !     Now  for  the  history  of  my  friend 
Quentin. ' ' 

''Before  the  history,  let's  drink.    Your  health,  com- 
rade." 
I      ''Yours." 
* '  May  all  our  troubles  vanish  into  thin  air. ' ' 
"True,"  exclaimed  Quentin.     "Let  us  leave  to  the 
gods  the  care  of  placating  the  winds,  and  let  us  enjoy 
life  as  long  as  fortune,  age,  and  the  black  spindle  of  the 
Three  Sisters  will  permit  us." 

f"Are  you  a  reader  of  Horace?"  asked  Don  Gil. 
"Yes." 
' '  One  more  reason  for  my  liking  you.    Another  glass, 
eh?" 

("Let  us  proceed.     Go  on  with  the  story,  comrade." 
"Here  goes." 
Don  Gil  cleared  his  throat,  and  commenced  his  story 
as  follows.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN   WHICH   IS   TOLD   THE   HISTORY  OP   A   TAVERN   ON 
SIERRA   MORENA 

TOWARD  the  first  part  of  last  century,  upon 
one  of  the  folds  of  Sierra  Morena,  stood  a 
tavern  called  El  Ventorro  de  la  Sangre 
(Bloody  Tavern).  It  was  half  way  between  Pozo 
Blanco  and  Cordova,  in  a  fertile  little  pasture  near  an 
olive  orchard. 

Its  name  arose  from  a  bloody  encounter  between  the 
dragoons  and  guerillas  in  that  spot  at  the  time  of  the 
French  intervention. 

The  tavern  was  situated  on  a  small  clearing  that  was 
always  kept  green.  It  was  surrounded  by  tall  prickly- 
pears,  a  ravine,  and  an  olive  orchard  in  which  one  could 
see  ruins — ^vestiges  of  a  fortress  and  a  watch-tower. 
This  land  belonged  to  a  village  perched  upon  the  most 
rugged  and  broken  part  of  the  mountain.  ...  Its  name 
does  not  at  present  concern  the  story. 

The  tavern  was  neither  very  large,  nor  very  spacious ; 
it  had  neither  the  characteristics  of  a  hostelry,  nor  even 
of  a  store.  Its  front,  which  was  six  metres  long,  white- 
washed, and  pierced  by  a  door  and  three  windows,  faced 
a  bad  horse-shoe  road  strewn  with  loose  stones;  its 
humble  roof  leaned  toward  the  ground,  and  joined  that 
of  a  shed  which  contained  the  stables,  the  manger,  and 
the  straw-loft. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  TAVERN  83 

One  passed  through  the  entrance  of  the  little  tavern 
from  whose  lintel  hung  a  bunch  of  sarment — which  in- 
dicated, for  your  enlightenment,  thal^i^n  the  house  thus 
decorated  wine  was  sold — and  entered  a  miserable  vesti- 
bule, which  also  served  as  a  kitchen,  a  larder,  and,  at 
times,  a  dormitory. 

During  the  years  1838  and  '39,  the  proprietor  of  El 
Ventorro  de  la  Sangre  was  a  man  named  El  Carta- 
genero, who,  so  evil  tongues  asserted,  had  been  a  licen- 
tiate— though  not  of  philosophy — in  a  university  with 
mayors  for  professors,  and  sticks  for  beadles.  No  one 
knew  the  truth — a  clear  indication  that  the  tavern  was 
not  run  badly;  the  man  paid  well,  behaved  himself  as  a 
man  should,  and  was  capable,  if  the  occasion  arose,  of 
lending  a  hand  to  any  of  the  neighbouring  farmers. 

El  Cartagenero  demonstrated  in  his  delightful  and 
entertaining  conversation,  that  he  had  travelled  exten- 
sively, both  by  land  and  by  sea;  he  knew  the  business 
of  innkeeping — which  has  its  secrets  as  well  as  anything 
else  in  the  world ;  robbed  very  little ;  was  hard-working, 
sensible,  upright,  and  if  need  be,  firm,  generous,  and 
brave. 

El  Cartagenero  was  to  all  appearances  a  fugitive ;  and 
that  very  condition  of  his  made  him  most  reserved  and 
taciturn,  in  no  way  a  prier,  and  very  little  given  to  mix- 
ing himself  in  other  people's  affairs. 

When  he  had  run  the  little  tavern  for  six  years.  El 
Cartagenero  rented  an  oil-press;  he  then  installed  a 
tile-kiln,  and  by  his  activity  and  perseverance,  was  get- 
ting along  splendidly,  when  one  day,  unfortunately  for 
him,  while  he  was  loading  a  cart  with  bricks,  he  fell  in 
such  a  way  that  he  struck  his  head  on  the  iron-shod 
wheel,  and  was  instantly  killed. 


84  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

From  that  very  day,  the  tavern  began  to  run  down; 
La  Cartagenera  did  not  care  to  continue  the  renting  of 
the  press,  because,  as  she  said,  she  could  not  attend  to 
it;  she  abandoned  the  kiln  for  the  same  reason,  and 
neglected  the  tavern  for  no  pretext  at  all,  though,  if 
there  was  no  pretext  or  motive,  there  was  an  explana- 
tion; and  this  was  La  Cartagenera 's  vice  of  drinking 
brandy,  and  the  laziness  and  idleness  of  her  daughters — 
two  very  sly  and  very  slothful  un-belled  cows. 

The  elder  of  El  Cartagenero 's  daughters  made  her 
arrangements  with  a  swaggering  rascal  from  Cordova; 
and  the  other,  not  to  be  outdone  by  her  sister,  took  for 
her  good  man,  one  of  those  country  loafers — and  what 
with  the  sweetheart  of  the  former,  and  the  friend  of  the 
other,  and  the  brandy  of  the  mother,  the  house  began 
to  run  down  hill. 

The  muleteers  soon  guessed  what  was  up;  they  no 
longer  found  good  wine  there  as  before;  nor  a  diligent 
person  to  prepare  their  meals  and  feed  their  animals; 
so  now  because  the  hosier  had  left  the  place  swearing 
mad,  again  because  the  pedlar  had  quarrelled  with 
them,  all  of  their  customers  began  to  leave;  and  for  a 
whole  year  no  one  dismounted  at  the  tavern;  and  the 
mother  and  her  daughters,  with  the  two  corresponding 
swains,  passed  the  time  insulting  and  growling  at  each 
other,  stretched  out  in  the  sun  in  the  summer,  toasting 
sarment  at  the  fire-place  in  the  winter,  and  in  all  the 
seasons  hurling  bitter  complaints  against  an  adverse 
destiny. 

After  a  year  of  this  regime,  there  was  nothing  left  in 
the  house  to  eat,  nor  to  drink,  nor  to  soil — for  they  had 
sold  ever3rthing  including  the  doors — the  family  de- 
termined  to   get   rid   of   the   tavern.     The   girls'   two 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  TAVERN  85 

friends  came  to  Cordova  and  opened  up  negotiations 
with  all  their  acquaintances,  and  were  about  despairing 
of  making  a  sale,  when  a  farmer  from  these  parts  by 
the  name  of  El  Mojoso,  presented  himself  a-t  the  tavern. 
He  was  a  clever,  sensible  chap,  and  the  owner  of  a  drove 
of  five  very  astute  little  donkeys. 

El  Mojoso  entered  into  negotiations  with  the  widow, 
and  for  less  than  nothing,  became  possessed  of  the  es- 
tablishment. El  Mojoso  was  very  sagacious,  and  im- 
mediately comprehended  the  situation  at  the  tavern;  so 
he  began  to  think  about  conducive  methods  of  restoring 
the  credit  of  the  house.  The  first  thing  that  occurred 
to  him  after  he  had  been  installed  a  few  days,  was  to 
change  its  name,  and  he  had  a  painter  friend  of  his 
paint  in  huge  letters  upon  the  whitewashed  wall  above 
the  door,  this  sign: 

THE   CROSS-ROADS  STORE 

El  Mojoso  had  a  wife  and  three  children:  one,  em- 
ployed as  a  miner  in  Pueblo  Nuevo  del  Terrible;  and 
two  girls,  with  whom  and  his  wife  he  established  himself 
in  the  store. 

His  wife,  whom  they  called  La  Temeraria,  was  a 
tall,  strong,  industrious,  and  determined  matron.  The 
daughters  were  splendid  girls,  but  too  refined  to  live 
in  that  deserted  spot. 

El  Mojoso  himself  was  a  tough  sort  of  a  chap,  crazy 
about  bulls,  slangy,  and  somewhat  of  a  boaster.  As 
a  man  who  had  spent  his  childhood  in  the  Matadero 
district,  which  is  the  finest  school  of  bull-fighting  in  the 
world,  he  knew  how  to  differentiate  the  several  tricks 
of  the  bull-ring. 


86  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

At  first,  El  Mojoso  did  not  abandon  Ms  drove;  the 
returns  from  the  inn  were  very  small,  and  it  did  not 
seem  expedient  to  him  to  quit  his  carrying  business. 
But  instead  of  walking  the  streets  of  Cordova,  he  de- 
voted himself  to  going  to  and  from  the  mountain  vil- 
lages carrying  wheat  to  the  mill,  farming  utensils  to 
the  farms,  and  doing  a  lot  of  errands  and  favours  that 
were  gaining  him  many  friends  in  the  neighbourhood.' 

"When  he  had  no  errands  or  favours  to  do,  he  carried 
stones  to  his  house  on  his  donkeys  and  piled  them  under 
the  shed.  After  a  year  of  this  work,  when  he  had 
gathered  together  the  wherewithal,  he  got  a  mason  from 
Cordova,  and  under  his  direction,  La  Temeraria  and 
he  and  his  daughters,  and  a  youth  whom  they  had 
hired  as  a  servant,  lengthened  the  house,  raised  it  a 
story,  tiled  the  roof,  and  whitewashed  it. 

El  Mojoso  had  to  sell  his  donkeys  to  pay  the  costs — 
only  keeping  one.  The  muleteers  were  already  resum- 
ing their  old  custom  of  stopping  at  the  store. 

During  the  first  months,  the  wine  was  pure,  and  there 
was  a  pardillo  and  a  claret  such  as  had  not  been  known 
in  those  parts  for  many  years.  Little  by  little  the 
store  commenced  to  grow  in  fame ;  lively  and  genial  folk 
met  there ;  the  wine  grew  worse,  according  to  the  opinion 
of  the  intelligent,  but  good  wine  was  not  lacking  if  the 
customer  who  asked  for  it  had  the  means  of  paying 
without  protest  or  objection  three  or  four  times  its 
worth.  During  the  slaughter  season  there  was  pork 
chine  when  they  wanted  it,  and  at  other  times  of  the 
year,  pork  sausage,  blood  pudding  and  other  such  del- 
icacies. 

El  Mojoso  learned  his  new  business  very  quickly. 
Without  doubt,  he  was  a  thief  a  nativitate.    He  watered 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  TAVERN  87 

the  wine  and  perjured  himself  by  swearing  that  it  was 
the  only  pure  wine  that  was  sold  in  the  entire  moun- 
tain district;  he  put  pepper  in  the  brandy;  he  cheated 
in  grain  and  hay;  tangled  up  the  accounts,  and — al- 
ways came  out  ahead. 

Nearly  every  day  he  went  to  the  city  with  his  donkey 
under  the  pretext  of  shopping ;  but  the  truth  is  that  his 
trips  were  to  carry  instructions  and  orders  from  a  few 
timid  men  who  went  about  the  mountain,  blunderbuss 
in  hand,  to  some  poor  chaps  in  prison. 

La  Temeraria  knew  how  to  help  her  husband.  She 
was  a  quiet,  hard-working  woman  as  long  as  no  one 
interfered  with  her ;  but  if  any  one  dared  to  fail  her,  she 
was  a  she-wolf,  more  vengeful  than  God.  She  had 
enough  spirit  to  look  upon  robbing  as  a  pardonable  and 
permissible  thing,  and  even  to  the  extent  of  not  consid- 
ering it  extraordinary  for  a  man  to  bring  down  a  militia- 
man and  leave  him  on  the  ground  chewing  mud. 

In  fine,  the  husband  and  wife  were  the  most  artful 
.  .  .  innkeepers  in  these  parts.  At  the  Cross-roads 
Store,  the  traveller  could  spend  the  night  in  peace, 
whether  he  was  an  orderly  person  or  had  some  little 
account  to  settle  with  the  police;  or  whether  he  was  a 
merchant  or  a  horseman,  he  could  be  sure  of  being 
undisturbed.     One  day        ..... 

''But  tell  me,  my  friend,"  Don  Gil  asked  Quentin; 
"how  does  the  beginning  of  the  story  strike  you?" 

''Very  well." 

"Did  you  like  the  exposition?" 

"I  should  say  so!    You  are  a  master." 

"Thanks!"  exclaimed  Don  Gil,  satisfied.  "To  your 
health,  comrade." 


88  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 


To  yours." 

Now  you'll  hear  the  good  part/' 


One  rainy  day  in  the  month  of  February,  just  at  dusk, 
there  was  gathered  in  the  kitchen  of  the  Cross-roads 
Store,  a  group  of  muleteers  from  the  near-by  village. 
Some  of  them,  imbued  with  a  love  of  heat,  were  seated 
upon  two  long  benches  on  either  side  of  the  hearth; 
others  were  seated  upon  chairs  and  stools  of  wicker  and 
lambskin,  further  away  from  the  fire. 

By  the  light  of  the  blackened  lamp  and  the  flame  of 
the  candle,  the  whole  circumference  of  the  kitchen, 
which  was  a  large  one,  could  be  seen:  its  enormous 
mantel,  its  rafters  twisted  and  blackened  with  smoke, 
the  big  stones  in  the  floor,  and  the  walls  adorned  with  a 
collection  of  pot-covers,  saucepans,  wooden  spoons,  and 
coloured  jars  hung  upon  nails. 

The  muleteers  were  engaged  in  an  animated  conver- 
sation while  they  waited  for  the  supper  which  La  Te- 
meraria was  at  that  moment  preparing  in  two  frying- 
pans  full  of  pork  chine  and  potatoes;  El  Mojoso  was 
filling  the  measure  with  barley  which  he  took  from  a 
bin;  then,  pouring  the  grain  into  a  leather  sieve,  he 
handed  it  to  a  youth  who  was  going  to  and  from  the 
kitchen  and  the  stable. 

Night  had  already  fallen,  and  it  was  raining  torrents, 
when  repeated  knocks  sounded  upon  the  door. 

**Who  is  it?"  shouted  El  Mojoso  in  a  loud  voice. 
**Come  in,  whoever  it  is." 

This  said,  the  host  took  a  lantern,  lit  it  with  a  brand 
from  the  fire,  crossed  the  kitchen,  and  stood  in  the 
vestibule  with  the  light  held  high  to  see  who  was  com- 
ing in.     The  vestibule  was  as  narrow  as  a  corridor;  it 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  TAVERN  89 

had  board  walls,  and  upon  them,  hanging  from  wooden 
pot-hooks,  could  be  seen  several  kinds  of  pack-saddles, 
panniers,  headstalls,  and  other  harness  of  leather,  cloth, 
and  esparto-grass.  Upon  the  slanting  stone  floor,  sev- 
eral muleteers  who  had  made  their  beds  there  were 
sleeping  peacefully. 

The  knock  on  the  door  was  repeated. 

"Come  in!"  said  El  Mojoso. 

The  wooden  half-door  opened  with  a  screech,  and  a 
man  appeared  on  the  threshold,  wrapped  in  a  Jerez 
shawl  which  was  drenched  with  water. 

*'Is  there  lodging  here?"  the  man  asked. 

'* There's  good  will,"  answered  the  innkeeper.  *'Did 
you  come  on  horseback?" 

"Yes." 

"Come  in.  I'll  take  your  horse  to  the  stable.  Walk 
right  in  there." 

The  man  went  to  the  kitchen. 

'  ^  The  peace  of  God  be  with  you,  gentlemen ! "  he  said. 

"May  He  keep  you,"  they  all  answered. 

The  recent  arrival  went  in,  took  off  his  long,  tasseled 
shawl,  and  sat  down  upon  a  grass-bottomed  chair  near 
the  fire. 

The  innkeeper's  daughter,  more  out  of  curiosity  than 
anything  else,  threw  an  armful  of  dry  rose-wood  upon 
the  fire,  which  began  to  burn  brilliantly,  producing  a 
large  flame,  and  filling  the  kitchen  with  the  odour  of  its 
incense. 

By  the  light  of  the  flames  they  could  see  that  the 
recent  arrival  was  a  tall  and  strong  young  man  of 
about  twenty  years,  upon  whose  upper  lip  the  down  had 
not  yet  begun  to  appear.  He  looked  like  a  gentleman 
of  noble  blood;  he  wore  a  short  coat,  knee  breeches 


90  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET     * 

fastened  with  silver  buttons,  buckled  leggings,  a  blue 
sash,  a  coloured  silk  handkerchief  about  his  neck,  and  a 
small,  creased  calañés.  The  hostess  noticed  that  his 
shirt  studs  were  made  of  diamonds. 

''You  have  bad  weather  for  travelling,"  she  said. 

**Bad  it  is,"  replied  the  youth  dryly,  without  re- 
moving his  eyes  from  the  fire. 

The  muleteers  examined  the  young  man  in  silence. 
El  Mojoso  came  back  from  the  stable  where  he  had 
taken  the  horse,  brought  in  a  half -filled  sack  on  his  back, 
and  emptied  it  into  the  bin,  weighed  the  barley  in  the 
measure,  and  asked  the  horseman: 

''What  shall  I  give  the  animal?" 

"Give  him  a  good  feed." 

"Shall  I  give  him  two  quarts?" 

"Yes." 

El  Mojoso  went  out  with  the  measure  in  one  hand  and 
the  lantern  in  the  other. 

"This  chap,"  he  murmured  into  his  cloak,  "is  a  rich 
youngster  who  has  been  in  some  escapade  in  Cordova. 
His  horse  is  out  there  with  an  embossed  saddle.  The 
boy  will  pay  well." 

El  Mojoso  was  a  man  who  knew  his  profession.  Con- 
vinced of  the  character  of  the  young  man,  he  returned 
to  the  kitchen  with  a  broader  smile  than  usual,  and  said : 

"What  would  your  worship  like  for  supper?" 

"Anything." 

"And  would  you  like  a  bed?" 

"Have  you  one?" 

"Si,  Señor." 

' '  Good :     Then  I  shall  sleep  in  a  bed. " 

"Very  well;  they^ll  get  it  ready  for  you  directly." 

The  hostess  took  one  of  the  large  frying-pans  from 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  TAVERN  91 

the  fire  and  emptied  its  contents  into  a  dish  which  she 
placed  upon  a  low  table. 

The  muleteers  prepared  themselves  for  the  meal. 
La  Temeraria  took  one  of  the  blackened  lamps  from  the 
grime  of  the  mantel-piece,  lit  it,  and  seeing  that  it  did 
not  give  a  very  good  light,  took  a  hairpin  from  her  hair, 
stuck  it  into  the  wick  to  trim  and  ventilate  it,  and  this 
done,  fastened  it  with  a  wooden  peg  to  a  beam  that 
stuck  out  of  the  wall. 

'^ Bring  wine.  Mojoso,"  she  then  said  to  her  husband. 

The  innkeeper  passed  behind  a  counter  which  he  had 
at  the  right  of  the  kitchen  door,  and  filled  two  bottles 
from  a  wine-skin;  then,  from  another  skin,  using  great 
care  lest  he  spill  the  wine,  he  filled  a  small  Andújar  jar. 
One  of  the  large  bottles  he  placed  upon  the  table  about 
which  the  muleteers  had  seated  themselves  as  they 
chatted  and  waited  for  their  supper  to  be  prepared. 

La  Temeraria  placed  a  tripod  over  the  fire,  and  pres- 
ently the  older  daughter  of  the  house  entered  with  a 
large  lamp. 

''The  room  is  ready,  father,"  she  murmured. 

Turning  to  the  youth,  the  innkeeper  said: 

''You  may  go  up  now,  if  you  wish." 

The  young  man  arose  and  followed  the  landlord,  who 
lighted  his  way.  They  went  into  the  vestibule,  and,  one 
behind  the  other,  climbed  up  a  steep  stairway  to  a 
granary.  The  wind  blew  strongly  through  the  cracks 
in  the  roof;  by  the  flickering  lamp-light  they  could  see 
piles  of  walnuts  and  acorns  upon  the  floor,  and  large 
gourds  hanging  in  rows.  El  Mojoso  pushed  open  a 
white  door  of  freshly-painted  wood,  entered  a  room 
with  an  alcove  attached,  placed  the  lamp  upon  the  table, 
and  after  trimming  it  by  all  the  rules  of  the  art,  said: 


92  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

**  Supper  will  be  served  to  you  directly.  If  you  need 
anything,  call;*'  and  he  shut  the  door  as  he  went  out. 

The  youth  listened  to  the  innkeeper's  footsteps  in 
the  attic,  and  when  he  found  himself  alone,  drew  two 
pistols  from  his  sash,  entered  the  alcove,  and  hid  them 
on  the  bed  under  the  pillow ;  he  inspected  the  door,  and 
found  that  it  was  solid  with  a  strong  lock;  next  he 
opened  the  window,  and  a  gust  of  cold  air  made  the 
flame  of  the  lamp  flicker  violently.     He  looked  out. 

''This  doubtless  looks  out  upon  the  other  side  of  the 
road,"  he  said  to  himself. 

He  closed  the  outside  shutter  and  paced  back  and 
forth,  waiting  for  his  supper.  The  room  was  narrow 
and  low  and  whitewashed,  with  blue  rafters  in  the 
ceiling,  and  an  alcove  at  one  end  occupied  by  a  bed 
covered  with  a  red  quilt.  Pushed  against  the  wall  was 
a  mahogany  bureau  with  a  Carmen  Virgin  in  a  glass 
case;  opposite  the  bureau  was  a  straw  couch  with  a 
mahogany  frame.  There  was  a  round  table  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room  upon  whose  coarse  top  were  two  plates, 
a  glass,  and  the  lamp.  Upon  the  walls  were  several 
rough  engravings  and  a  gun. 

The  young  man  showed  signs  of  impatience,  listening 
attentively  to  the  slightest  distant  noises.  Tired  of 
pacing  to  and  fro,  he  sat  upon  the  couch  and  thought- 
fully contemplated  the  rafters  in  the  ceiling. 

A  half  hour  had  elapsed  since  El  Mojoso 's  departure, 
when  there  came  a  shy  knock  at  the  door.  The  youth 
was  so  preoccupied  that  he  heard  nothing  until  the 
third  or  fourth  knock,  and  a  voice  saying: 

''May  I  come  inT' 

"Come!" 

The  door  opened  and  a  girl  entered — the  landlord's 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  TAVERN  93 

second  daughter — with   a   dish   in   one   hand,   and   an 
Andújar  jar  in  the  other. 

The  youth  was  astounded  at  seeing  such  a  pretty  maid, 
and  completely  upset  by  the  sight. 

''What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

''Your  supper." 
,,     '*Ah!     You  are  the  landlord's  daughter?" 
p    **Si,  Señor,"  she  replied  with  a  smile. 

The  girl  set  the  dish  upon  the  table,  and  he  sat  down 
without  taking  his  eyes  off  her.  She  made  a  tremendous 
impression  upon  him.  The  child  was  truly  charming; 
she  had  black,  almond-shaped  eyes,  a  pale  complexion, 
and  in  her  hair,  which  was  cleverly  done  up  and  as 
black  and  lustrous  as  the  elytra  of  some  insects,  was  a 
red  flower. 

* '  What  is  your  name,  my  dear,  if  I  may  ask  ? ' '  said  he. 

** Fuensanta,"  she  replied  .... 


**Ah!  Her  name  was  Fuensanta!"  exclaimed  Quen- 
tin  involuntarily. 

''Yes.  It's  a  very  common  name  in  these  parts. 
Why  does  it  surprise  you?" 

"Nothing,  nothing:  proceed  ..." 

"Well,  I  shall." 


The  youth  sighed,  and  as  his  admiration  had  doubt- 
less not  taken  away  his  appetite,  he  attacked  the  slices 
prepared  by  La  Temeraria  with  his  fork,  and  after  sev- 
eral drinks  from  the  jar,  he  succeeded  in  emptying  it, 
and  doing  away  with  the  portions  of  the  savoury  country 
food. 


94  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

The  little  girl  returned  directly  to  his  room  to  bring 
the  traveller  his  dessert,  and  they  talked. 

He  asked  her  if  she  had  a  sweetheart,  and  she  said 
she  hadn't;  he  asked  her  if  she  would  like  to  have  him, 
and  she  answered  that  gentlemen  could  not  very  well 
love  poor  girls  who  lived  in  taverns,  and  then  they  talked 
for  a  long  time. 

The  next  day,  the  young  horseman  left  the  tavern  to 
proceed  on  his  journey,  and  El  Mojoso  went  down  to 
Cordova  to  his  business        ..... 


*'And  who  was  that  young  man?"  asked  Quentin. 

'*Wait,  comrade.  Everything  in  its  time.  How  do 
you  like  the  way  I  tell  it,  eh?" 

**You  certainly  are  a  past  master." 

**Well,  now  comes  the  best  part  of  it.  You'll 
see.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  FIGHT  IN  AN  OLIVE  ORCHARD 

SEVERAL  days  afterward,  just  at  dawn,  El 
Mojoso  was  returning  from  Cordova  to  his  tavern, 
when,  at  a  turn  in  the  road,  he  came  upon  a 
small  cavalcade  made  up  of  six  men — five  of  whom  were 
soldiers,  and  the  other,  an  elegantly  dressed  young  man. 

El  Mojoso,  who  had  little  liking  for  evil  encounters, 
pricked  up  his  beast  in  order  to  get  into  the  paths  ahead 
of  the  group ;  but  the  chief,  who  wore  the  insignia  of  a 
sergeant,  when  he  noticed  the  innkeeper's  intention, 
shouted  to  him: 

'*Hey,  my  good  man,  wait  a  moment!" 

El  Mojoso  stopped  his  donkey. 

*'What  do  you  want?"  he  asked  ill-humouredly. 

"We've  got  something  to  say  to  you." 

''Well,  I  can't  lose  anything  by  listening  to  it." 

''You  are  the  owner  of  the  Cross-roads  Store,  aren't 
you?" 

' '  Yes,  sir :  what  else  do  you  want  ? ' ' 

"Why,  just  don't  go  so  fast,  friend,  we  feel  like 
going  along  with  you." 

"Are  you  going  to  Pozo  Blanco?" 

"No,  sir."        . 

"To  Obejo,  perhaps?" 

"No.    We're  going  to  the  Store." 

"To  the  Store!"  exclaimed  El  Mojoso,  overcome  with 

95 


96  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

astonishment.  ''Whom  are  you  looking  for  in  my 
house?" 

"We're  looking  for  the  Marquesito/* 

"The  Marquesito?    What  Marquesito?" 

' '  Don 't  you  know  him  1 ' ' 

"Upon  my  word  I  do  not!  I  hope  to  die  if  I'm  not 
telling  you  the  truth." 

"Well,  it  seems  that  your  daughter  knows  him  very 
well,"  replied  the  soldier  meaningly. 

El  Mojoso 's  face  darkened,  not  that  it  had  ever  been 
exactly  light,  and  looking  back  at  the  sergeant,  he  mur- 
mured in  a  dull  voice: 

"You've  either  said  too  much  or  too  little." 

"I've  said  all  that  was  necessary,"  answered  the 
soldier  gruffly. 

El  Mojoso  fell  silent  and  urged  on  his  donkey,  while 
the  soldiers  and  the  unknown  young  gentleman  followed 
him. 

The  sun  came  out  from  behind  the  mountain;  in  the 
distance  they  could  see  a  series  of  low-lying  hills  and 
the  Cross-roads  Store  in  its  little  green  clearing  near  the 
ravine. 

When  they  reached  the  Store,  El  Mojoso  dismounted 
from  his  donkey  and  began  to  pound  furiously  upon  the 
door.     He  beat  frantically  with  hands  and  feet. 

"Open!     Open!"  he  shouted  impatiently. 

"Who  is  it?"  came  from  within. 

"Me,"  and  El  Mojoso  ripped  out  a  string  of  iingry 
oaths. 

A  lock  screeched,  the  door  opened,  and  La  Temeraria 
appeared  half-dressed  on  the  threshold. 

"Why  didn't  you  open  sooner?"  El  Mojoso  vocif- 
erated. 


¥ 


A  FIGHT  IN  AN  OLIVE  ORCHARD        97 

'* What's  the  matter?"  she  asked  as  she  drew  a  short 
skirt  over  head  and  fastened  it  rapidly  about  her 
waist. 

''A  whole  lot's  the  matter.  Are  there  any  travellers 
in  the  house?" 

' '  The  young  man  who  was  here  a  few  days  ago  passed 
the  night  here." 

The  unknown  gentleman  and  the  chief  of  the  soldiers 
exchanged  a  look  of  understanding.  El  Mojoso  entered 
his  house,  and  La  Temeraria  followed  behind  him. 

"Go  and  see  if  there  is  a  horse  in  the  stable,"  said 
the  sergeant  to  one  of  his  men,  "and  if  there  is,  bring 
it  here." 

The  soldier  dismounted,  went  into  the  stable,  and  re- 
turned after  a  little,  leading  a  horse  by  the  bridle. 

La  Temeraria,  who  had  heard  the  noise,  intercepted 
the  soldier. 

"Where  are  you  taking  that  horse?"  she  asked. 

"The  sergeant  ordered  me  to  bring  him  out." 

"What  for?'* 

"So  the  man  who  is  here  can't  escape." 

"What  has  the  young  man  done?"  asked  La  Teme- 
raria, looking  contemptuously  at  the  soldier. 

"He  killed  a  man  in  Cordova  about  a  month  ago." 

At  this  moment,  the  innkeeper,  who  had  been  inside 
the  house,  returned  shouting  to  the  vestibule. 

"Where  is  Fuensanta?"  he  asked  his  wife. 

"She  must  be  in  her  room." 

"She  isn't  there." 

"Not  there?" 

"No,     I  just  looked." 

El  Mojoso  and  La  Temeraria  looked  at  each  other 
furiously  and  understandingly. 


98  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Meanwhile  the  sergeant,  followed  by  one  of  his  sol- 
diers, went  up  the  stairs  to  the  garret.  When  the  fugi- 
tive heard  the  noise  their  boots  and  spurs  made,  he 
must  have  realized  his  danger,  for  they  heard  the  thud 
of  a  body  as  he  threw  himself  against  the  door,  then 
the  turning  of  a  key  in  the  lock,  and  then  a  murmur  of 
voices. 

The  sergeant  drew  his  sword,  went  up  to  the  door 
behind  which  he  had  heard  the  voices,  and  knocked  with 
the  hilt  of  his  weapon. 

''Open  in  the  name  of  the  law!"  he  shouted  in  a 
thundrous  voice. 

''Wait  a  moment,  I'm  dressing,"  came  the  answer 
from  within. 

After  a  minute  had  elapsed,  the  sergeant  exclaimed 
impatiently : 

"Come,  come!     Open  the  door!" 

"Wait  just  a  second." 

"I  won't  wait  a  minute  longer.  Open:  I  promise 
not  to  hurt  you." 

' '  Words  are  air,  and  the  wind  carries  them  all  away, ' ' 
replied  the  fugutive  ironically. 

' '  Will  you  open,  or  will  you  not  ? ' ' 

"I  will  not;  and  he  who  contradicts  me  is  in  danger 
of  his  life.     You'll  have  to  kill  me  here." 

At  the  risk  of  breaking  his  neck,  the  sergeant  ran 
down  the  stairs  three  steps  at  a  time,  and  addressing  his 
soldiers,  said: 

"Boys,  come  upstairs  with  your  guns.  We've  got  to 
break  down  the  door.  One  of  you  stay  here  on  guard, 
and  if  any  one  tries  to  escape,  fire  on  him." 

Two  of  the  men  dismounted  rapidly,  crossed  the  ves- 
tibule, and,  preceded  by  the  sergeant,  rushed  headlong 


A  FIGHT  IN  AN  OLIVE  ORCHARD        99 

upstairs,  reached  the  garret,  and  began  to  beat  upon  the 
door  with  the  butts  of  their  heavy  guns. 

''Surrender!"  shouted  the  sergeant  again  and  again. 

No  one  answered. 

''Quick  now!     Throw  down  the  door." 

The  door  was  new  and  did  not  yield  to  the  first  blows, 
but  little  by  little  the  panels  gave  way,  and  at  last,  a 
formidable  blow  with  the  butt  broke  the  lock  .  .  . 

The  soldiers  entered: — stretched  upon  the  floor  lay  a 
half-dressed  woman.     The  window  was  open. 

"The  scoundrel  escaped  through  that,"  said  one  of 
the  men. 

"My  God!  We  can't  let  him  escape,"  shouted  the 
sergeant,  and  sticking  his  head  through  the  window,  he 
saw  a  man  running  across  a  field  half  hidden  among  the 
olive  trees.  Without  making  sure  whether  it  was  the 
man  they  were  after  or  not,  he  drew  a  pistol  from  his 
belt  and  fired. 

"No — he's  gone.     We've  got  to  catch  him." 

They  all  left  the  room;  there  came  a  devilish  noise  of 
boots  and  spurs  on  the  stairs,  and  they  crossed  the 
vestibule. 

"To  your  horses,"  said  the  sergeant. 

The  order  was  obeyed  instantly. 

"You,  Aragonés,  and  you,  Segura,  get  behind  that 
hay-stack,"  and  the  chief  indicated  a  great  pile  of  black 
straw.  "You  two,  ride  around  that  field,  and  this 
gentleman  and  I  will  go  and  look  for  the  Marquesito 
face  to  face. ' ' 

The  two  pairs  of  troopers  took  their  appointed  places, 
and  the  sergeant  and  the  unknown  gentleman  advanced 
through  the  middle  of  the  olive  orchard. 

Aragonés  and  Segura  were  the  first  to  see  the  fugi- 


100         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

tive,  who  was  running  along  hiding  behind  the  olive 
trees,  with  a  gun  in  his  hand.  The  two  soldiers  cocked 
their  guns  and  advanced  cautiously;  but  the  youth  saw 
them,  stopped  and  waited  for  them,  kneeling  upon  one 
knee.  The  soldiers  attempted  to  make  a  detour  in  order 
to  get  near  their  game,  but  as  they  described  an  arc, 
the  youth  kept  the  trunk  of  an  olive  tree  between  him 
and  them.  Seeing  that  he  was  making  sport  of  them, 
the  soldiers  advanced  resolutely.  The  Marquesito  aimed 
his  gun  and  fired,  and  one  of  the  horses,  that  of  Ara- 
gonés, fell  wounded  in  the  shoulder,  throwing  his  rider. 
Segura,  the  other  soldier,  made  his  horse  rear,  in  order 
to  guard  against  a  shot,  but  the  Marquesito  fired  a 
pistol  with  such  good  aim,  that  the  man  fell  to  the 
ground  with  blood  pouring  from  his  mouth. 

Then  the  youth,  realizing  that  the  other  pursuers 
would  immediately  come  to  the  spot  where  they  had 
heard  the  shots,  ran  until  he  came  to  a  century-old  olive 
tree  with  a  great,  deformed  trunk  whose  gnarled  roots 
resembled  a  tangled  mass  of  snakes.  He  took  advantage 
of  the  respite  to  load  his  gun  and  pistol.  Then  he 
waited.  Presently  a  shot  was  fired  behind  him,  and  he 
felt  a  bullet  enter  his  leg.  He  turned  rapidly  and  saw 
the  sergeant  and  the  gentleman  approaching  on  horse- 
back. I 

*'My  death  will  cost  you  dear,*'  murmured  the  Mar- 
quesito angrily. 

**  Surrender !' *  shouted  the  sergeant,  and  approached 
the  fugitive  at  a  trot. 

The  Marquesito  waited,  and  when  the  sergeant  was 
twenty  paces  from  him,  he  fired  his  gun  and  pierced 
him  with  a  bullet. 

**Hey,  boys!"  shouted  the  sergeant.    **Here  he  is.  , 


A  FIGHT  IN  AN  OLIVE  OilCHARD      101 


Kill  him ! ' '  Then  he  put  his  hand  to  his  breast,  began 
to  bleed  at  the  mouth,  and  fell  from  his  horse  murmur- 
ing, ''Jesus!     He's  killed  me!" 

One  of  the  sergeant's  feet  caught  in  the  stirrup,  and 
the  horse,  becoming  frightened,  dragged  his  rider's  body 
for  some  distance  over  the  ground. 

''Now  it's  your  turn,  coward!"  shouted  the  Mar- 
quesito,  addressing  the  gentleman. 

But  that  person  had  turned  on  his  croup  and  couldn't 
get  away  fast  enough. 

The  youth  began  to  think  that  he  was  safe :  the  blood 
was  flowing  copiously  from  his  wound,  so  he  took  the 
handkerchief  from  about  his  neck  and  bound  his  leg 
firmly  with  it.  Next,  he  reloaded  his  weapons,  and 
limping  slowly,  sheltering  himself  behind  the  olive  trees 
and  glancing  from  side  to  side,  he  advanced. 

When  he  had  reached  a  little  plaza  formed  by  a  space 
that  was  bare  of  trees,  he  saw  one  of  the  soldiers  in 
ambush.     Perhaps  it  was  the  last  one. 

When  they  saw  each  other,  pursuer  and  pursued 
immediately  took  refuge  behind  the  trees.  The  soldier 
fired ;  a  ball  whistled  by  the  Marquesito  's  head ;  then  he 
rested  his  gun  against  a  tree  trunk,  fired,  and  the  sol- 
dier's helmet  fell  to  the  ground. 

They  both  concealed  themselves  while  they  reloaded 
their  weapons,  and  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
they  kept  shooting  at  each  other,  neither  of  them  mak- 
ing up  his  mind  to  come  out  into  the  open. 

The  Marquesito  was  beginning  to  feel  faint  from  the 
loss  of  blood;  so  he  decided  to  risk  all  for  all. 

"Let's  see  if  we  can't  finish  this  business,"  he  mur- 
mured between  his  clenched  teeth;  and  he  advanced, 
limping  resolutely  toward  the  soldier.    After  a  few  steps 


lOa         THE  GITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

he  discharged  his  gun  point  blank,  and  immediately 
after,  his  pistol. 

"When  he  saw  that  his  enemy  had  not  fallen,  that  he 
was  still  standing,  he  tried  to  escape,  but  his  strength 
failed  him.  Then  the  soldier  took  aim  and  fired.  The 
Marquesito  fell  headlong  ...  he  was  dead.  The  ball 
had  struck  him  in  the  back  of  the  neck  and  had  come  out 
through  one  of  his  eyes,  shattering  his  skull. 

''He  was  a  brave  chap,"  murmured  the  soldier  as  he 
gazed  at  the  corpse;  then  he  kneeled  by  his  side  and 
searched  his  clothes.  He  wrapped  his  watch  and  chain, 
his  shirt  studs,  and  his  money,  in  a  handkerchief,  tied  it 
in  a  knot,  and  made  his  way  back  to  the  tavern. 

As  he  drew  near,  he  heard  a  voice  wailing  in  despair : 

'*0h,  mother!  Oh,  mother!  Oh,  my  dearest 
mother ! ' ' 

In  the  clearing  before  the  house  was  Fuensanta,  half- 
undressed,  livid,  with  her  face  black  and  blue  from  the 
beating  her  father  had  given  her.  The  girl  was  moan- 
ing upon  the  ground,  terror-stricken.  La  Temeraria, 
with  her  arms  lifted  tragically,  was  shouting: 

*'She  has  dishonoured  us!  She  has  dishonoured 
us!" 

The  innkeeper  *s  other  daughter  stood  in  the  doorway, 
watching  her  sister  as  she  dragged  herself  along  the 
ground,  exhausted  by  her  beating. 

** Don't  beat  the  girl  like  that,"  said  the  soldier. 

* '  Don 't  beat  her ! "  shouted  El  Mojoso.  '  *  No,  I  won 't 
beat  her  any  more,"  and  seizing  his  daughter  by  the 
arm  he  pushed  her  brutally  from  him,  shouting : 

**Go  .  .  .  and  never  come  back!" 

The  bewildered  girl  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and 
then  the  poor  little  thing  began  to  walk  away,  weeping, 


A  FIGHT  IN  AN  OLIVE  ORCHARD      103 

and  not  knowing  what  she  was  doing,  nor  where  she  was 
going. 

Months  later,  a  woman  from  an  Obejo  mill  came  to 
El  Mojoso  and  announced  that  Fuensanta  had  given 
birth  to  a  son,  and  that  she  desired  to  be  forgiven  and 
to  return  home;  but  the  innkeeper  said  that  he  would 
kill  her  if  she  ever  came  near  him. 

**The  scoundrel!  The  bandit!"  exclaimed  Quentin, 
striking  the  table  a  blow  with  his  fist. 

"Who  is  a  scoundrel?"  asked  Señor  Sabadla  in  sur- 
prise. 

''That  Mojoso  fellow,  the  dirty  thief  ...  his 
daughter  dishonoured  him  because  she  loved  a  man,  yet 
he  did  not  dishonour  himself,  though  he  robbed  every 
one  that  came  along." 

''That's  different." 

"Yes,  it's  different,"  cried  Quentin  furiously.  "To 
the  hidalgos  of  Spain  it  is  a  different  matter ;  to  all  those 
commonplace  and  thoughtless  men,  a  woman's  honour  is 
beneath  contempt.     Imbeciles!" 

"I  see  that  you  are  enraged,"  said  Don  Gil  with  a 
smile.     "Does  the  story  interest  you?" 

"Very  much." 

"Shall  I  proceed?" 

"Please  do." 

"Then  kindly  call  Señora  Patrocinio  and  ask  her  to 
bring  more  bottles  of  wine,  for  my  throat  is  very  dry," 

"But  you  are  a  regular  cask,  my  dear  Don  Gil." 

"Yes;  I'm  the  Cask  of  the  Danaides.  Call  her, 
please. ' ' 

"Señora  Patrocinio!  Señora  Patrocinio!"  called 
Quentin. 


104         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 


if 


Isn't  she  coming?" 

No.  She  is  probably  busy  with  her  witchcraft. 
Perhaps  this  very  minute  she  is  burning  in  her  magic 
fire  the  sycamore  torn  from  the  sepulchre." 

*'0r  the  funereal  cypress,  and  the  feathers  and  eggs 
of  a  red  owl  soaked  in  toad's  blood,"  added  Don  Gil. 

''Or  the  poisonous  herbs  which  grew  in  such  abun- 
dance in  lolchos,  and  in  far-off  Iberia,"  continued 
Quentin. 

"Or  the  bones  torn  from  the  mouth  of  a  hungry 
bitch,"  added  the  archaeologist. 

"Señora  Patrocinio!  Señora  Canidia!"  shouted 
Quentin. 

"Señora  Patrocinio!  Señora  Canidia!"  echoed 
Señor  Sabadla. 

"What  do  you  want?"  asked  the  old  woman  as  she 
suddenly  entered  the  room. 

"Ah!     She  was  here!"  exclaimed  Quentin. 

"She  was  here!"  echoed  Señor  Sabadla.  "We  want 
some   more   bottles." 

"What  kind  do  you  want?" 

"I  believe,  venerable  dame,"  Quentin  ejaculated, 
"that  it  is  all  the  same  to  my  friend  here,  whether  it  be 
wine  from  the  vines  of  Falemus,  Phormio,  or  Cécube, 
as  long  as  it  is  wine.     Is  that  not  true,  Don  Gil?" 

"Of  course.  I  see  that  you  are  a  sagacious  young 
man.  Bring  them,  old  woman,"  said  the  archaeologist, 
turning  to  Señora  Patrocinio,  "bring  fearlessly  forth 
that  excellent  wine  that  you  have  guarded  so  jealously 
these  four  years  in  the  Sabine  pitchers." 

The  old  woman  brought  the  bottles,  Quentin  filled  Don 
Gil  *s  glass  and  then  his  own,  they  emptied  them  both,  and 
Señor  Sabadla  went  on  with  his  story  in  these  words : 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN   WHICH    SEÑOR   SABADÍA   ABUSES   WORDS   AND   WINE 

YEARS  ago  in  the  Calle  de  Librerías,  in  a  little 
corner  near  the  Cuesta  de  Lujan,  there  stood  a 
silversmith's  shop,  with  an  awning  stretched 
over  the  doorway,  a  very  narrow  show-case  in  which  a 
number  of  rosaries,  rings,  medals,  and  crosses  were  dis- 
played, and  a  miserable  half -obliterated  sign  with  these 
words:  ''Salvador's  Shop."  From  one  end  of  this 
sign,  symbolically,  hung  a  pair  of  pasteboard  scales. 

Salvador,  the  proprietor  of  this  silversmith's  shop, 
was  a  wealthy  bachelor  who  had  lived  with  a  sister  for 
many  years  before  her  death. 

At  the  time  of  my  story,  Don  Andrés,  as  the  silver- 
smith was  called,  was  a  man  of  some  sixty  years,  small, 
clean-shaven,  with  white  hair,  rosy  cheeks,  clear  eyes, 
and  smiling  lips.     He  regembled  a  silver  medal. 

With  all  his  sweet,  beatific  countenance,  Don  Andrés 
was  at  heart,  an  egoist.  Possessing  little  intelligence 
and  less  courage,  life  made  a  coward  of  him.  He  had 
an  idea  that  things  advanced  too  rapidly,  and  was,  there- 
fore, an  enemy  to  all  innovations.  Any  change  what- 
ever, even  if  it  were  beneficial,  disturbed  him  pro- 
foundly. 

"We  have  lived  like  this  so  far,"  he  would  say,  ''and 
I  can  see  no  necessity  for  any  change." 

Don  Andrés  Salvador  was  equally  conservative  in  his 

105 


106         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

business :  all  he  had  was  an  ability  for  work  that  re- 
quired patience.  Rosaries,  crosses,  rings,  and  medals 
left  his  house  by  the  gross,  but  everything  manufactured 
in  his  shop  was  always  the  same;  unchanged,  and  un- 
improved— wrought  with  the  same  old-fashioned  and 
decadent  taste. 

Besides  being  a  conservative,  Don  Andrés  was  distrust 
personified ;  he  did  not  want  any  one  to  see  him  at  work. 
At  that  time,  repousse  work  was  still  something  mys- 
terious and  secret,  and  the  silversmith,  to  prevent  any 
one  from  surprising  his  secrets,  shut  himself  up  in  his 
own  room  when  he  was  about  to  make  something  of  im- 
portance, and  there  worked  unseen. 

One  morning  when  Don  Andrés  was  standing  in  the 
doorway  of  his  shop,  he  saw  a  girl  running  toward  him 
along  the  Calle  de  la  Feria,  pursued  by  an  old  woman. 

His  instinct  as  a  law-abiding  citizen  made  him  go  out 
and  stop  the  girl. 

* '  Let  me  go.  Señor, ' '  she  cried. 

"No.     Is  that  your  mother  following  you?** 

'*No,  she  isn't  my  mother,"  and  the  child  began  to 
cry  disconsolately.  In  a  broken  voice  she  told  him  how 
she  had  been  ill  for  some  time  in  a  hut  on  the  Calle  de 
la  Feria,  and  how,  when  she  had  become  well,  the  mis- 
tress of  the  house  had  tried  to  force  her  to  remain  as  her 
ward,  and  how  she  had  escaped. 

By  this  time  the  old  woman  had  come  up  behind  the 
girl,  and  as  a  group  of  children  began  to  form  around 
the  shop  door,  the  silversmith  led  the  two  women  inside. 

He  asked  the  old  woman  if  what  the  girl  had  said  was 
true,  and  the  Celestina  in  her  confusion  said  that  it  was, 
but  defended  herself  by  declaring  that  she  had  kept  the 
girl  because  she  had  not  paid  for  what  she  had  spent  on 


WORDS  AND  WINE  107 

medicines  during  her  illness,  and  for  dresses,  stockings, 
and  underclothes  with  which  to  clothe  her. 

The  silversmith  realized  that  it  was  a  matter  of  an  in- 
famous exploitation,  and  whether  he  was  indignant  at 
this,  or  whether  he  was  touched  by  the  girl 's  appearance, 
the  fact  is,  he  said  with  more  vehemence  than  he  was 
accustomed  to  use: 

''I  see.  Señora  Consolación,  that  you  are  trying  to  ex- 
ploit this  child  in  an  evil  way.  Leave  her  alone,  for  she 
will  return  your  clothes,  and  go  back  to  your  house ;  for 
if  you  don't,  I  shall  warn  the  authorities,  and  you  will 
rest  your  old  bones  in  jail." 

The  old  woman,  who  knew  the  influence  and  prestige 
the  silversmith  enjoyed  in  the  district,  began  once  more 
to  complain  of  the  great  prejudice  they  had  against  her, 
but  Don  Andrés  cut  her  argument  short  by  saying : 

''Either  you  get  out,  or  I  will  call  the  alguacil." 

The  Celestina  said  not  another  word,  but  tied  her 
handkerchief  about  her  neck  as  if  she  wished  to  strangle 
herself  with  it,  and  moved  off  down  the  street,  spouting 
curses  as  she  went. 

The  girl  and  the  silversmith  were  left  alone  in  the 
shop.  He  followed  the  old  woman  with  his  eyes  as  she 
went  screaming  along  the  Calle  de  la  Feria  among  the 
noisy  people  who  came  running  to  their  doorways  as  she 
passed.     When  she  was  out  of  sight,  he  said  to  the  girl : 

''You  can  go  now.     She's  gone." 

When  she  heard  this,  the  girl  began  to  sob  again. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  send  me  away.  Señor!  For 
God's  sake!" 

"I'm  not  going  to  send  you  away.  You  may  stay  a 
while  if  you  wish." 

"No.    Let  me  stay  here  always.    You  are  good.     I'll 


108         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

be  your  servant,  and  you  won't  have  to  give  me  a  thing 
for  iV 

**No,  no — I  cannot,"  replied  the  silversmith. 

Then  the  child  knelt  on  the  floor,  and  with  her  arms 
thrown  wide  apart,  said: 

*  *  Señor !     Señor !     Let  me  stay ! '  *  j 
'  *  No,  no.     G  et  up !    Don 't  be  silly. ' '                              | 

*  *  Then  if  I  kill  myself, ' '  she  cried  as  she  regained  her 
feet,  * '  it  will  be  your  fault. ' '  ^ 

^^Notmme.''  ^ 

**Yes,  yours,''  and  the  girl,  changing  her  tone,  added, 
*'But  you  don't  want  me  to  go.  You  won't  throw  me 
out;  you  11  let  me  live  here;  I'll  serve  you,  and  take  care 
of  you ;  I  '11  be  your  servant,  and  you  needn  't  give  me  a 
thing  for  it ;  and  I  will  thank  you  and  pray  for  you. ' ' 

''But,  what  will  people  say?"  murmured  Don  Andrés, 
who  foresaw  a  complication  in  his  life. 

''I  swear  to  you  by  the  Carmen  Virgin,"  she  ex- 
claimed, "that  I  won't  give  them  a  chance  to  talk,  for 
nobody  shall  see  me.  You'll  let  me  live  here,  won't 
you?" 

**How  can  I  help  it!  You  stick  a  dagger  into  one's 
heart.  We  '11  give  it  a  try.  But  let  me  warn  you  about 
one  thing :  the  first  time  I  notice  a  failing — even  if  it  is 
only  a  man  hanging  around  the  house — I'll  throw  you 
out  immediately." 

**No  one  will  hang  around." 

''Then  I  shall  give  you  some  old  clothes  this  very 
minute,  and  you  may  send  those  to  Señora  Consolación  's 
house.     Then  go  to  work  in  the  kitchen  immediately." 

And  so  it  wa8->done;  and  Fuensanta,  for  the  girl  was 
Fuensanta,  the  daughter  of  El  Mojoso,  entered  the  house 
of  the  silversmith  as  a  servant,  and  became,  as  she  had 


WORDS  AND  WINE  109 

promised,  circumspect,  submissive,  silent  and  indus- 
trious. 

Little  by  little  the  silversmith  grew  fond  of  her;  Don 
Andrés'  sister  had  been  a  basilisk,  a  violent  and  ill- 
tempered  old  maid  for  whose  fits  of  bad  temper  he  had 
always  suffered.  Fuensanta  paid  the  old  man  delicate 
attentions  to  which  he  was  unaccustomed,  and  he  looked 
forward  to  an  old  age  in  an  atmosphere  of  affection  and 
respect. 

''See  here,"  Don  Andrés  once  said  to  her,  *'you  must 
not  be  separated  from  your  son.     Bring  the  boy  here." 

Fuensanta  went  to  Obejo,  and  returned  the  following 
day  with  the  boy.  He  was  three  years  old,  and  a  regu- 
lar savage.  Fuensanta,  who  realized  that  such  a  wild 
creature  would  not  please  such  an  orderly  and  meticu- 
lous person  as  the  silversmith,  always  kept  him  segre- 
gated on  the  roof,  where  the  little  lad  passed  the  long 
hours  in  play. 

After  she  had  been  in  Don  Andrés  Salvador's  house 
for  three  years,  Fuensanta  got  married. 

Among  the  agents  and  pedlars  who  were  supplied  in 
the  shop,  there  was  a  young  man,  Rafael  by  name,  whom 
they  nicknamed  El  Pende. 

This  Rafael  was  at  that  time  a  gracious,  pleasant  chap 
of  some  twenty-odd  years;  he  had  the  reputation  of 
being  lazy — firstly  because  he  came  from  the  Santa  Ma- 
rina district,  and  secondly  because  he  was  the  son  of 
Matapalos,  one  of  the  biggest  loafers  in  Cordova. 

Matapalos,  a  distinguished  member  of  the  Pende 
dynasty,  was  a  carpenter,  and  such  a  poor  one,  so  they 
said,  that  the  only  things  he  could  make  were  wedges, 
and  even  these  never  came  out  straight. 

El  Pende  junior,  in  spite  of  his  reputation  as  a  loafer, 


lio  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

used  to  work.  He  took  up  the  business  of  peddling 
from  town  to  town;  selling  necklaces  and  rosaries 
throughout  the  entire  highlands,  and  buying  old  gold 
and  lace  wherever  he  went. 

He  was  a  gaudy  and  elegant  lad,  who  spent  nearly 
everything"  he  earned  on  jewels  and  good  clothes. 

**I'd  rather  wear  jewels  than  eat,"  he  said. 

Rafael,  or  El  Pende,  as  you  will,  began  promptly  to 
pay  court  to  the  girl.  She  duly  checked  his  advances, 
but  he  grew  stronger  under  punishment,  and  she,  see- 
ing that  the  man  persisted,  told  him  the  story  of  her 
misfortune. 

El  Pende  made  light  of  it  all.  He  was  very  much 
enamoured,  or  perhaps  he  saw  something  in  the  woman 
that  others  had  missed;  for,  though  she  had  no  money, 
nor  any  possibility  of  inheriting  any,  he  did  not  give  up 
trying  until  he  succeeded  in  persuading  her  to  marry 
him. 

**Now  IVe  got  to  persuade  the  master,"  said  Fuen- 
santa, after  coming  to  an  understanding  with  her  sweet- 
heart. '* Because,  if  he  opposes  us — I  won't  marry 
you."  J 

Slowly,  insinuatingly,  Fuensanta  prepared  the  ground 
day  by  day.  Allowing  herself  to  stumble,  she  suggested 
the  idea  of  marriage  to  the  silversmith,  until  Don  Andrés 
himself  advised  his  servant  to  marry,  and  pointed  out  to 
her  the  advantages  she  would  have  should  she  join  her- 
self to  Rafael. 

They  were  married,  and  lived  in  an  attic  next  the 
roof.  The  silversmith  gladly  granted  them  the  attic, 
for  they  scared  away  thieves,  and  he  liked  to  have  a 
young  man  around  to  look  after  the  house. 

Fuensanta   continued   to   serve   him   as   before.    EI 


WORDS  AND  WINE  111 

Pende  made  his  trips ;  he  had  made  advantageous  terms 
with  the  silversmith  in  his  commissions,  and  he  and  the 
old  man  understood  each  other  admirably. 

Fuensanta  began  to  behold  a  useful  collaborator  in 
her  husband.  He  was  intelligent  and  sagacious ;  he  had 
a  latent  ambition  which  was  awakened  with  real  vio- 
lence at  his  marriage. 

The  child  was  an  obstacle  to  the  peace  of  the  house- 
hold. Quentin  was  stupid,  brutal,  proud,  and  med- 
dlesome. 

After  two  years  of  matrimony,  Fuensanta  gave  birth 
to  a  son  whom  they  called  Rafael,  after  his  father. 
Quentin  had  no  use  for  the  boy,  a  fact  that  caused  El 
Pende  to  hate  his  stepson. 

Quentin  did  not  go  to  school,  so  he  knew  nothing.  He 
played  about  the  streets  in  rags  with  rowdies  and  toughs. 
One  day,  when  El  Pende  saw  him  with  some  gipsies,  he 
seized  him,  carried  him  home,  and  said  to  his  mother : 

''We've  got  to  do  something  about  this  child." 

'*Yes,  we  must  do  something,"  she  agreed. 

''Why  don't  you  ask  the  master  if  he  knows  of  a  cheap 
school?" 

Fuensanta  spoke  to  the  silversmith,  who  listened  to 
her  attentively. 

"Do  you  know  what  we'll  do?"  said  Don  Andrés. 

"What?" 

"We'll  find  out  who  his  father's  family  are.  How 
long  ago  was  he  killed  ? ' ' 

"Seven  years." 

"Good.     Then  I'll  find  out." 

On  that  same  street,  on  the  comer  of  the  Calle  de  la 
Espartería,  in  a  house  upon  whose  chamfer  was  an  iron 
cross,  there  lived  a  retired  captain  of  militia,  Don  Matías 


lia  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Echavarria.  The  silversmith  called  on  him,  related 
what  had  happened  in  the  Cross-roads  Store,  and  asked 
the  captain  if  he  remembered  the  affair,  and  if  he  knew 
the  name  of  the  protagonist. 

''Yes,''  said  Don  Matías,  ''the  boy  who  ran  away  and 
was  killed  on  the  Pozo  Blanco  road,  was  the  son  of  the 
Marquis  of  Tavera.  When  the  thing  happened,  they 
hushed  it  up,  saying  that  he  had  met  his  death  by  a  fall 
from  his  horse,  and  no  one  ever  knew  anything  about 
it." 

When  the  silversmith  returned  to  his  house,  he  said 
nothing  to  Fuensanta,  but,  shut  up  in  his  room,  he  wrote 
a  letter  to  the  old  Marquis,  giving  him  a  detailed  account 
of  the  facts,  and  telling  him  that  a  grandson  of  his  was 
living  in  his  modest  home. 

He  had  to  wait  for  the  answer.  At  the  end  of  two 
weeks,  Don  Andrés  received  a  message  from  the  Marquis 
telling  him  to  send  Fuensanta  to  his  house  to  talk  with 
him,  and  to  bring  the  boy  with  her. 

Fuensanta  made  Quentin  as  presentable  as  possible, 
and  went  with  him  to  the  Marquis '  palace.  The  old  man 
received  her  very  pleasantly,  bade  her  tell  him  her  story, 
caressed  the  child,  and  murmured  from  time  to  time : 

"He's  just  like  him,  just  like  him.  ..."  Then  he 
added,  turning  to  the  mother,  "Are  you  in  needy  cir- 
cumstances ? "  A 

* '  Si,  Señor  Marqués. ' ' 

"Very  well;  take  one  hundred  dollars  for  the  present. 
We  shall  see  what  we  can  do  for  the  boy. ' ' 

Fuensanta  told  her  husband  what  had  happened  in 
the  Marquis'  house,  and  El  Pende  immediately  took  pos- 
session of  the  hundred  dollars. 

The  economical  chap  already  had  a  like  amount,  and 


WORDS  AND  WINE  113 

he  believed  that  the  moment  had  arrived  to  realize  his 
plans  of  establishing  himself.  Consequently,  a  little 
later,  he  rented  a  store  in  the  Calle  de  la  Zapatería. 


''What's  the  matter  with  you,  Don  Gil?"  asked 
Quentin,  as  he  saw  the  narrator  looking  about  for  some- 
thing. 

*'Why,  you^re  not  pouring  wine  for  me." 

''There's  none  left." 

"Then  call  Señora  Patrocinio." 

"What  will  you  have,  Don  Gil?  Falernus?  Or  shall 
we  devote  ourselves  this  time  to  the  vines  of  Calais?" 

"No,  no;  Montilla." 

"Can't  we  make  a  change?" 

"Mix  one  wine  with  another?  Never!  It's  very 
dangerous.  But  are  you,  or  are  you  not  going  to  call 
that  old  woman?  If  you  do  not,  I  will  not  go  on  with 
my  story." 

"Do  go  on  with  it,  Don  Gil,"  said  Señora  Patrocinio, 
opening  the  door  and  placing  two  bottles  upon  the  table. 
"I  was  almost  asleep  out  here,  and  was  amusing  myself 
by  listening  to  what  you  were  saying. ' ' 

"Eh!"  exclaimed  Don  Gil,  "I  must  be  a  great  histo- 
rian if  even  Sister  Patrocinio  listens  to  my  tale.  Allow 
me  to  wet  my  throat.  Now  for  it,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
now  for  it ! " 


CHAPTER  X 

DON   GIL  FINISHES   HIS   STORY 

SEÑORA  PATROCINIO  seated  herself  at  the  table. 
She  was  a  thin,  lean  old  woman,  with  a  yellow 
complexion,  a  hooked  nose  which  was  on  friendly 
)|  terms  with  her  chin,  grey  hair,  and  a  wrinkled  skin. 
Don  Gil  took  a  drink,  and  continued  as  follows : 

The  store  was  located  in  a  large,  antique  house, 
painted  blue.  On  the  ground  floor  were  four  grated 
windows,  a  door,  and  two  little  shops.  One  of  these  was 
a  mat  store,  and  the  other  was  the  one  El  Pende  had 
rented. 

It  was  a  tiny  apartment,  scarcely  three  metres  square, 
with  a  few  living-rooms  beyond  a  dark  back  room. 

El  Pende  put  neither  signs  nor  decorations  on  his 
shop ;  he  placed  a  counter  painted  with  red  ochre  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  set  up  a  few  pine  shelves,  and  com- 
menced business. 

All  kinds  of  things  to  eat  and  to  drink  and  to  burn 
were  sold  at  the  store;  a  heterogeneous  assortment  was 
heaped  upon  the  shelves ;  there  were  soaps,  silks,  taffy  of 
all  kinds,  and  dyes  from  the  most  distinguished  factory 
in  the  whole  world,  which  is  that  of  the  Calle  de  Mucho 
Trigo;  there  were  hemp-seeds  roasted  in  honey,  candied 
pine-nuts,  almond  paste,  and  those  thin  little  wafers 
that  you  must  have  seen,  that  look  like  priests'  hats. 

114 


DON  GIL  FINISHES  HIS  STORY         115 

''Come,  don't  get  tiresome,"  said  Señora  Patrocinio. 

' '  If  you  interrupt  me,  Sister  Patrocinio,  I  shall  refuse 
to  go  on,"  answered  the  narrator. 

''You  are  losing  the  thread  of  your  story.  Come  to 
the  point,  Don  Gil,  come  to  the  point." 

"Very  well,  then — I  refuse  to  continue." 

"Go  on,  man,  go  on;  you're  crankier  than  a  wheat- 
sifter,"  said  the  old  woman. 

"Where  was  I?"  murmured  Don  Gil.  "I  believe 
I've  forgotten." 

"You  were  telling  us  what  the  store  contained,"  sug- 
gested Quentin. 


Of  drinkables  (the  archaeologist  continued),  there 
were  all  sorts  of  brandies  and  refreshing  beverages; 
rossolis,  which  they  call  ressolis  here;  Cazalla,  and  wild 
cherry  brandy  in  green  jars  which  some  call  parrots, 
and  others  greenfinches. 

The  little  store  in  the  Calle  de  la  Zapatería  soon  had 
customers.  Country  folk  used  to  go  there  to  take  a  little 
nip  in  the  morning;  a  few  servant  girls  and  a  great 
many  children  used  to  stop  there  to  buy  sweets. 

El  Pende  stayed  behind  the  counter  where  he  received 
his  friends,  who  sometimes  spent  a  little  money.  The 
most  assiduous  in  his  attendance  at  these  gatherings, 
was  a  ruined  hidalgo  by  the  name  of  Palomares,  whom 
El  Pende  had  known  since  childhood,  and  who,  having 
nothing  to  do,  used  to  take  refuge  in  the  shop.  In 
order  not  to  be  in  the  way,  and  at  the  same  time  to 
make  himself  useful,  he  used  to  wait  on  customers  him- 
self. 

This  hidalgo,  Diego  Palomares,  was  an  adventurer,  a 


116         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

son  of  Lucena.  He  had  departed  from  his  home  town 
for  the  first  time  when  he  was  eighteen  years  old,  to 
attend  the  Seville  Fair.  He  lost  all  his  money  and  his 
desire  to  return  to  his  native  city,  by  gambling,  and 
acquired,  in  exchange,  a  desire  to  see  the  world;  so  he 
went  to  Cadiz  and  embarked  for  America.  There  he 
had  his  ups  and  downs  successively :  he  was  a  merchant, 
a  super-cargo  on  a  ship,  and  after  many  years  of  hard 
and  fatiguing  work,  he  returned  to  Cordova,  thirty-six 
years  old,  penniless,  and  prematurely  aged. 

When  Diego  Palomares  saw  that  his  friend  was  getting 
on  well  with  the  store,  he  joined  him. 

While  El  Pende  sat  at  the  counter  tending  the  store, 
Fuensanta  continued  to  help  the  silversmith. 

Six  months  after  the  first  gift,  the  old  Marquis 
sent  for  Fuensanta  and  gave  her  another  hundred  dol- 
lars. 

From  the  wife's  hands  they  passed  into  those  of  her 
husband,  who  used  them  all  in  the  store.  i 

El  Pende  asked  the  landlord  to  give  him  another  room, 
and  to  remove  one  of  the  grated  windows,  that  he  might 
enlarge  his  store.  His  request  was  granted,  and  in 
place  of  the  grating,  they  installed  a  show-window. 

Then  El  Pende  had  a  sign  painted,  and  hanging  from 
the  board,  a  gilt,  many-pointed  star. 

How  many  arguments  he  and  Palomares  had  as  tOj 
whether  the  star  was  right  or  not ! 

I  remember  that  one  day,  when  I  was  on  my  way  to 
the  Casino,  they  called  me  in  to  elucidate  the  question 
for  them;  and  you  ought  to  have  heard  me  give  them 
a  talk  about  office-signs  of  all  kinds !  It  is  a  matter  to 
which  few  people  pay  any  attention. 


DON  GIL  FINISHES  HIS  STORY         117 

''Come,  there  you  go  again,  wandering  away  from 
your  subject,"  said  the  old  woman. 

''Be  quiet,"  Don  Gil  ejaculated.  "This  matter  of 
signs  is  very  interesting;  don't  you  think  so?"  he 
asked  Quentin. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it." 

"Oh,  don't  you?  Well,  for  example,  some  night 
you  may  see  a  closed  store  with  a  sign  which  reads 
'Perez,'  with  two  red  hands  hanging  from  the  board. 
What  kind  of  business  do  those  red  hands  indicate?" 

"A  glove  store,  perhaps?"  asked  Quentin. 

"That's  right.  How  clever  the  lad  is!  What  does 
a  basin  indicate?" 

"That's  well  known — a  barber  shop." 

"And  a  rooster  on  top  of  a  ball?" 

"That  I  don't  know." 

"Why,  a  poultry  shop.  And  a  red  or  blue  ball  in  a 
show-case  ? ' ' 

"A  drug  store." 

"Very  good.     And  a  little  tiny  mattress?" 

' '  A  mattress-maker 's  store. ' ' 

"And  one  or  two  black  hands  holding  a  bunch  of 
keys?" 

"I  think  I  have  seen  that  in  front  of  locksmiths' 
shops. ' ' 

' '  That 's  right.     And  a  large  book  ? ' ' 

"A  bindery." 

"But  what  a  clever  chap  he  is!  And  large  eye- 
glasses— very  large?" 

"An  optician's." 

"And  the  bust  of  a  woman  leaning  from  a  balcony  as 
though  taking  the  air?" 

"I  don't  know." 


118         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

*'A  ladies'  hair-dressing  salon:  but  they  don't  have 
as  many  here  as  they  do  in  Madrid.  And  a  horse- 
shoe?" 

''You're  the  one  that  ought  to  be  horse-shoed, "  ejacu- 
lated Señora  Patrocinio.  *'Are  you  going  on  with  the 
story  or  not,  Don  Gil?" 

''But  you  two  are  confusing  me!  You  make  me  lose 
the  thread.     Where  was  I  ? " 

"You  were  telling  us,"  said  Señora  Patrocinio,  "about 
how  they  fixed  up  the  store  with  the  Marquis'  money." 

"Ah!     That's  so." 


They  widened  the  store;  left  off  several  articles  that 
were  not  very  productive,  and  devoted  themselves  ex- 
clusively to  selling  comestibles.  They  bought  casks  of 
Montillo  wine.  Montero  oil,  sugar,  coffee,  and  hired 
some  chocolate  makers  to  make  chocolate. 

Palomares,  whom  El  Pende  had  engaged  as  a  clerk 
when  he  saw  the  prosperity  of  the  establishment,  spent 
the  day  wrapping  up  cakes  of  chocolate,  toasting  coffee, 
and  mixing  peanuts  and  chicory. 

Palomares  had  a  great  talent  for  labelling  his  mixtures. 
When  he  had  faked  up  something,  he  called  it  "Extra- 
Superior";  if  the  fake  was  so  complete  that  one  could 
not  tell  what  kind  of  a  product  it  was,  then  he  called 
it  "Superior"  or  "Fine." 

Besides  these  hyperbolical  names,  there  were  other 
more  modest  ones,  such  as  "First  Class,"  "Second 
Class,"  and  "Third  Class."  These  divisions  were  hard 
to  define;  yet  Palomares  asserted,  not  that  they  were 
good,  but  that  one  could  easily  distinguish  a  difference 
between  them. 


DON  GIL  FINISHES  HIS  STORY         119 

According  to   him,   it  was   clear  that   the   "Second 

Class"  was  worse  than  the  ''First  Class,"  and  that  the 

*' Third  Class"  was  worse  than  the  ''Second  Class"; 

\  but  this  was  not  saying  that  the  "First  Class"  and  the 

"Second  Class"  were  good,  or  even  passably  so. 

In  spite  of  the  chemistry  that  El  Pende  and  his  as- 
I  sistant  employed,  the  store  grew  in  reputation.  The 
'  show-window  was  full  of  sausages  wrapped  in  tinfoil, 
prunes,  and  tins  of  preserves.  On  the  shelves  were 
loaves  of  sugar,  bottles  of  sherry,  and  jugs  of  gin.  Upon 
the  floor  in  sacks,  were  rice,  kidney-beans,  and  casks  of 
sardines. 

Money  began  to  flow  into  the  store  in  such  a  quiet  and 
unobtrusive  manner  that  no  one  was  aware  of  it.  The 
old  silversmith  grumbled  at  the  thought  that  some  fine 
day  they  would  leave  him ;  but  Fuensanta  deceived  him 
by  telling  him  that  the  store  was  not  getting  along  very 
well,  and  that  they  would  get  rid  of  it  if  they  had  a 
chance. 

El  Pende,  who  lacked  the  patience  of  his  wife,  wished 
to  emancipate  himself  completely  from  the  old  man,  so 
he  rented  the  first  floor  of  the  house  in  which  the  store 
was  located,  giving  the  back  room  to  Palomares. 

Then  Fuensanta  hired  a  servant  girl,  and  every  min- 
ute she  had  free,  she  went  to  keep  the  old  silversmith 
company.  This  procedure  was  very  much  praised  by 
the  old  wives  of  the  community,  and  Fuensanta  en- 
joyed much  popularity.  At  the  same  time.  El  Pende 
succeeded  in  making  people  forget  his  family  nickname, 
and  everybody  called  him  Rafael,  or  Señor  Rafael,  and 
some  even  called  him  Don  Rafael. 

The  family  was  progressing  economically,  and  ac- 
quiring more  respectability,  when  the  lad  Quentin  began 


UO         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

to  make  trouble.  He  ran  away  from  home;  he  stole; 
once  he  came  near  poisoning  the  whole  family;  he  did 
terrible  things. 

Then  the  old  Marquis,  to  whose  knowledge  his  grand- 
son's escapades  had  come,  had  him  brought  before  him 
and  sent  him  away  to  school  in  England. 

Quentin  left,  and  the  family  continued  their  progress. 
Fuensanta  had  her  fourth  child,  a  daughter ;  and  during 
the  confinement,  Don  Andrés  Salvador,  the  silversmith, 
died  from  heart  failure. 

When  they  opened  the  old  man 's  will,  they  found  that 
his  fortune,  almost  in  its  entirety,  with  the  exception 
of  a  few  bequests  to  two  distant  relatives,  was  left  to 
Fuensanta.  The  fortune,  including  the  money  and  the 
house,  amounted  to  somewhere  near  thirty  thousand 
dollars. 

Then  Fuensanta  and  El  Pende  tried  to  rent  the  whole 
lower  floor  of  the  house  on  the  Calle  de  la  Zapatería,  with 
the  idea  of  converting  it  into  a  large  warehouse.  The 
landlord  was  willing,  but  the  man  who  rented  the  mat 
store  said  that  he  would  not  move,  that  he  had  a  ten- 
year  contract  with  the  landlord,  and  that  he  did  not 
intend  to  leave.  They  offered  to  pay  him  an  indemnity, 
but  he  persisted  in  his  recalcitrant  attitude. 

And  maybe  the  fool  wasn  't  stubborn !  El  Capita  was 
a  man  of  evil  intent  with  a  magnificent  history.  Some 
time  ago  he  lived  with  a  widow  who  had  two  daughters 
in  school.  When,  the  elder  daughter  graduated,  the 
man  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  married  her;  though  he 
continued  his  relations  with  her  mother.  El  Capita 
was  an  artful  chap.  His  wife  found  out  about  the 
affair,  and  was  indignant.  She  ran  away  with  her  hus- 
band's clerk  out  of  revenge;  but  El  Capita  did  not 


DON  GIL  FINISHES  HIS  STORY         121 

worry  about  the  matter.  Along  came  the  second  daugh- 
ter, and  El  Capita,  who  was  very  astute,  began  to  make 
advances  to  her,  which  she,  more  accommodating  than 
her  elder  sister,  willingly  accepted. 

El  Capita  was  very  content  with  his  store;  doubtless 
he  had  an  affection  for  all  those  panniers  and  head- 
stalls— mute  witnesses  of  his  drunken  parties  and  tem- 
pestuous love  affairs,  and  he  got  it  into  his  head  that  he 
was  not  going  to  move.  But  the  man  reckoned  without 
his  hostess ;  and  in  this  case,  his  hostess  was  Fuensanta, 
who  when  she  said  that  she  was  going  to  do  a  thing,  did 
it  regardless  of  all  obstacles. 

Fuensanta  very  quietly  transferred  the  inherited 
silversmith's  shop;  then  she  sold  the  house  in  the  Calle 
de  Librerías,  and  with  the  money  from  the  transfer  and 
the  sale,  bought  the  house  in  the  Calle  de  la  Zapatería; 
and  El  Capita  had  to  get  out  in  a  hurry,  willy  nilly, 
with  all  his  pack-saddles  and  panniers. 

Fuensanta  and  El  Pende  converted  the  whole  lower 
floor  into  a  warehouse.  They  furnished  the  barracks 
and  the  prison  with  goods  at  wholesale ;  but  as  they  did 
not  wish  to  kill  their  retail  trade,  they  rented  a  store  in 
the  Calle  de  la  Espartería  near  the  Arco  Alto  and  the 
Calle  de  Gitanos.  This  place,  which  was  known  in  an- 
cient times  by  the  name  of  El  Gollizno  on  account  of  its 
extreme  narrowness,  is  one  of  the  busiest  comers  in 
Cordova.     Certainly  there  .  .  . 

*'Good  lord!  Another  digression?"  exclaimed  Quen- 
tin.     ''Haven't  you  finished  yet?" 

''Yes." 

"Tell  us  the  rest,"  said  the  old  woman.  "What 
happened  to  that  El  Pende  fellow?" 


12a         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

** Nothing:  they  elected  him  to  the  council,  then  they 
made  him  lieutenant-mayor,  and  now  he  is  a  wealthy 
merchant,  a  banker ;  and  we  who  were  rich  once,  haven 't 
a  penny  now.  Eh?  Well,  that  is  the  story.  Come — 
pass  me  some  more  wine/' 

Don  Gil  seized  the  bottle  with  one  hand,  brought  it  to 
his  mouth,  and  began  to  drink. 

*' Enough,  man,  enough,"  said  Señora  Patrocinio. 

The  archaeologist  paid  no  attention  to  her,  and  never 
stopped  until  he  had  emptied  the  bottle.  Then  he  gazed 
about  the  room,  shut  his  eyes,  leaned  his  head  upon  the 
table,  and  an  instant  later,  commenced  to  snore  noisily. 

**The  compadre  is  rather  intoxicated,"  said  Quentin 
as  he  looked  at  Don  Gil. 

''Come,  you're  feeling  pretty  good  yourself,"  replied 
the  old  woman. 

*'I?  I  was  never  so  calm  in  my  life.  It  takes  a  lot 
to  get  us  people  from  England  drunk." 

"Ah!    Are  you  English?" 

*'No;  I  come  from  here." 

**And  are  you  a  friend  of  the  Quentin  of  whom  there 
has  been  so  much  talk  tonight?" 

''Ha  .  .  .  ha  .  .  .  ha!" 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"Why,  that  Quentin  .  .  .  is  me!" 

"You?"  and  she  used  the  familiar  tu. 

"Ha  ...  ha!  Now  the  old  dame  is  beginning  to 
'thee  and  thou'  me!" 

"Is  it  you,  Quentin?" 

"Yes." 

"I  am  a  relative  of  yours." 

"Really?     I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it." 

"I  can't  explain  anything  to  you  now,  because  you 


DON  GIL  FINISHES  HIS  STORY         123 

are  drunk.  Come  some  other  day  and  we'll  talk  it  over. 
Ill  help  you." 

'^Very  good;  I  shall  take  advantage  of  your  protec- 
tion ...  Ha,  ha!" 

''You  shall  see.     You  won't  have  to  work." 

''Work!  Ha  ...  ha  ...  ha!  That  is  an  idea  that 
never  occurred  to  me,  good  dame.  Far  from  me  is 
that  vulgar  thought  ...  Ah !  ...  Ha  ...  ha  ..  . 
ha!" 

Señora  Patrocinio  seized  Quentin  by  the  arm  and  led 
him  to  the  street. 

"Now,  go  home,"  she  said  to  him;  "some  other  day 
I  shall  tell  you  something  that  may  interest  you. 
Should  you  need  money,  come  here  before  you  go  any- 
where else." 

This  said,  she  pushed  Quentin  into  the  middle  of 
the  street.  The  coolness  of  the  night  air  cleared  his 
head.  Day  had  not  yet  dawned ;  the  sky  was  clean  and 
cloudless;  the  moon  was  low  in  the  heavens — just 
touching  the  horizon. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MORE   INCOMPREHENSIBLE   THAN   THE   HEART  OF   A 
GROWN   WOMAN,   IS  THAT  OF   A   GIRL-CHILD 

OUENTIN  did  not  abandon  the  idea  of  becom- 
ing intimate  with  Rafaela. 
He  now  knew  the  close  relationship  that 
united  them.  They  were  of  the  same  family.  Things 
would  have  to  turn  out  badly  indeed  not  to  be  advan- 
tageous to  him. 

One  morning  Quentin  again  went  to  his  cousin's 
house.  He  found  the  gate  open,  and  went  as  far  as 
the  interior  of  the  garden  without  ringing.  He  found 
Juan,  the  gardener,  busily  occupied  in  trying  to  turn 
the  key  which  let  the  water  out  of  the  pool;  an  un- 
dertaking in  which  he  was  not  successful. 

**What  are  you  trying  to  do?"  Quentin  asked  him. 

*'To  turn  this  key;  but  it's  so  dirty  ..." 

**Let  me  have  it,"  said  Quentin;  and  taking  a  large 
crowbar,  he  turned  the  key  with  scarcely  an  effort.  A 
jet  of  water  ran  into  a  small  trough,  from  which  it 
flowed  through  the  various  ditches  that  irrigated  the 
different  parts  of  the  garden. 

** Where  are  the  young  ladies?"  asked  Quentin. 

**At  mass:  they'll  be  back  in  a  little  while. 

** What's  doing  here?  How  is  everything  getting 
on?" 

"Badly.    Worse    every    day,"    answered    the    gar- 

12i 


THE  HEART  OF  A  GIRL-CHILD         125 

dener.  *'How  different  this  house  used  to  look! 
Money  used  to  flow  here  like  wheat.  They  said  that 
every  time  the  clock  struck,  the  Marquis  made  an  ounce 
of  gold.  And  such  luxury !  If  you  had  walked  through 
these  patios  thirty  years  ago,  you'd  have  thought  you 
were  in  heaven !'' 

''What  was  here?" 

*'You  would  have  met  the  armed  house-guards,  all 
gaudily  attired — with  short  coats,  stiff-brimmed  hats, 
and  guns." 

''What  did  they  do?" 

"They  accompanied  the  Marquis  on  his  trips.  Have 
you  seen  the  coach?  What  a  beauty  it  is!  It  will 
hold  twenty-four  persons.  It's  dirty  and  broken  now, 
and  isn't  a  bit  showy;  but  you  should  have  seen  it  in 
those  days.  It  used  to  take  eight  horses  and  postil- 
lions a  la  Federica  to  haul  it.  And  what  a  to-do  when 
they  gave  the  order  to  start!  The  guards,  mounted  on 
horseback,  waited  for  the  coach  in  that  little  plazoleta 
in  ^  front.  Then  the  cavalcade  started  off.  And  what 
horses!  He  always  had  two  or  three  of  those  animals 
that  cost  thousands  of  dollars." 
Il  "It  must  have  cost  him  a  lot  to  maintain  a  stable  like 
^that." 

"Just  think  of  it!" 

"When  did  these  grandeurs  come  to  an  end?" 

"Not  very  long  ago,  believe  me.  When  the  Queen 
came  to  Cordova,  she  rode  from  the  Cueva  del  Cojo  to 
the  city  in  our  coach." 

"How  is  it  that  the  family  could  fall  so  far?" 

"It  has  been  everybody's  fault.  God  never  granted 
much  sense  to  the  members  of  this  household;  but  the 
administrator  and  the  Count,  who  is  the  young  ladies' 


126         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

father,  were  the  ones  who  brought  on  most  of  the  rum. 
The  latter,  besides  being  a  libertine  and  a  spendthrift, 
is  a  fool.  People  are  always  deceiving  him;  and  what 
he  doesn't  lose  through  foolishness,  he  does  through 
distrust.  Once  he  bought  twenty  thousand  gallons  of 
oil  in  Malaga  at  seventy  reales,  brought  them  here,  and 
sold  them  in  a  few  days,  at  forty." 

''That  certainly  was  an  idiotic  thing  to  do." 

''Well,  he's  done  lots  more  like  it." 

"What  has  become  of  him  now?  Where  does  he 
live?" 

"He  goes  about  the  city  with  toreadors  and  horse- 
dealers.     He  has  separated  from  his  wife." 

"Did  he  marry  again?" 

"Yes;  the  second  time,  he  married  the  daughter 
of  an  olive  merchant:  a  beautiful,  but  ordinary  woman 
who  is  giving  the  town  a  lot  to  talk  about.  Since  he  is 
a  fool,  and  she  a  sinner,  after  two  or  three  years  of 
married  life,  they  separated — throwing  things  at  each 
other's  heads.  Now  he  is  living  with  a  gipsy  girl 
named  La  Mora,  who  relieves  him  of  what  pennies  he 
has  left.  The  girl's  brothers  and  cousins  go  into  re- 
tirement with  him  in  taverns,  and  maJke  him  sign 
papers  by  threatening  him  with  violence:  why,  they 
haven't  left  him  a  penny!  And  now  that  he  has  no 
money,  they  no  longer  love  him.  La  Mora  throws  him 
out  of  his  house,  and  I  believe  he  crawls  back  to  her  on 
his  knees." 

"Meanwhile,  what  about  his  wife?" 

"She  gets  worse  and  worse.  She  has  been  going 
about  here  with  a  lieutenant  .  .  .  she's  a  wild  hussy." 

The  gardener  took  his  spade  and  made  a  pile  of  earth 
in  a  ditch  to  keep  the  water  away  from  a  certain  spot. 


THE  HEART  OF  A  GIRL-CHILD         127 

While  Juan  worked,  Quentin  turned  his  ambitious  proj- 
I   ects  over  and  over  in  his  mind. 

!  ''What  a  superb  stroke!"  he  was  thinking.  "To 
marry  the  girl,  and  save  the  property!  That  surely 
would  be  killing  two  birds  with  one  stone.  To  have 
money,  and  at  the  same  time,  pass  for  a  romantic  chap ! 
That  would  be  admirable." 

''Here  come  the  young  ladies,"  said  Juan  suddenly, 
looking  down  the  corridor. 
Ip  Sure  enough;  Rafaela  and  Remedios,  accompanied 
by  the  tall,  dried-up  servant,  appeared  in  the  garden. 
The  two  girls  were  prettier  than  ever  in  their  mantillas 
and  black  dresses. 

"See  how  pretty  they  are!"  exclaimed  Juan  to 
Quentin,  arms  akimbo.  "Those  children  are  two 
slices  out  of  heaven." 

Rafaela  laughed  the  laugh  of  a  young  woman  ut- 
terly lacking  in  coquetry;  Remedios  looked  at  Quentin 
with  her  great,  black  eyes,  waiting,  perhaps,  for  a  con- 
firmation of  the  gardener's  compliment. 

Rafaela  removed  her  mantilla,  folded  it,  stuck  two 
large  pins  in  it,  and  gave  it  to  the  maid;  then  she 
smoothed  her  hair  with  her  long,  delicate-fingered 
white  hand. 

"I  have  a  favour  to  ask  of  you,"  she  said  to  Quentin. 

"Of  me?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Command  me:  I  shall  consider  myself  most  happy 
to  be  your  slave." 

Rafaela  laughed  musically  and  said: 

"Goodness  mé!  How  quickly  you  take  your 
ground ! ' ' 

"I  am  not  exaggerating;  I  am  saying  what  I  feel." 


128         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

''Then  be  careful,  for  you  seem  to  me  to  be  a  trifle 
restless  for  a  slave,  and  I  may  have  to  put  you  in 
irons. ' ' 

**It  won't  be  necessary  for  you  to  do  that.  Tell  me 
what  you  want  me  to  do." 

''Well,  a  very  simple  thing.  My  father,  who  is  not 
all  a  gentleman  should  be,  took  a  little  silver  jewel- 
case  out  of  my  room  the  other  day.  It  is  a  souvenir  of 
mother.  I  think  he  must  have  sold  it,  and  I  wish  you 
would  take  the  trouble  of  looking  for  it.  You'll  find 
it  in  some  pawn-shop  on  the  plaza.  There  is  a  coronet 
upon  the  cover  of  the  case,  and  in  the  silk  lining  are 
the  initials,  R.  S.  If  you  find  the  little  box,  please 
buy  it,  and  I  shall  pay  you  whatever  it  amounts 
to." 

"No,  not  that." 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  it  under  any  other  condition." 

Apropos  of  the  little  box,  Rafaela  spoke  sadly  of  her 
mother. 

Remedios,  who  had  taken  off  her  mantilla,  took  a 
hoop  from  a  corner  and  began  to  play  with  it. 

"Remedios!"  said  Rafaela.  "You  have  your  new 
dress  on.  Change  it,  and  study  your  lessons  immed- 
iately." 

"No,  not  today,"  replied  the  child. 

"Why  not?  And  she  says  it  so  calmly!  Big  girls 
don't  play  with  hoops.  If  I  don't  watch  this  child, 
she  plays  all  sorts  of  games,  just  like  a  little  street 
urchin.     Do  you  think  that  is  right,  girlie?" 

Remedios  looked  at  her  sister  impudently,  and  only 
whistled  as  an  answer. 

"Don't  whistle,  please." 

"I  will,"  answered  Remedios. 


THE  HEART  OF  A  GIRL-CHILD         1^9 

*'I'll  shut  you  up  in  the  dark  room.  We've  had  two 
days  this  week  without  our  lessons.  If  you  don't  learn 
any  more  than  that,  you'll  be  a  little  donkey  .  .  . 
Just  about  as  clever  as  Pajarito." 

''No!"  exclaimed  the  little  girl,  stamping  her  foot. 

''Yes,  yes,"  said  Rafaela,  smiling. 

"No." — And  throwing  her  arms  about  her  sister's 
neck,  Remedios  climbed  into  her  lap. 

"I  believe  you  have  lost  your  moral  strength," 
Quentin  said  to  her. 

"Yes;  I  think  so  too,"  added  Rafaela. 

Safe  in  her  sister's  lap,  Remedios  began  to  chatter, 
while  Rafaela  patted  her  like  a  baby.  She  told  several 
stories  in  which  Pajarito,  Juan  and  the  genet  appeared. 

"What  a  little  story-teller  you  are!"  said  Rafaela, 
laughing. 

When  she  grew  tired  of  this,  Remedios  jumped  from 
her  sister's  lap,  and  began  to  run  about  the  garden. 
Presently  she  appeared  riding  astride  of  the  donkey. 

"The  child  is  wild  today,"  said  Rafaela,  gazing 
severely  at  Remedios. 

The  little  girl  noticed  that  her  sister  was  annoyed, 
and  jumping  from  the  donkey  at  the  risk  of  falling, 
she  went  up  to  her. 

"Juan  said  that  we  can  pick  oranges  now." 

"Girlie,  will  you  kindly  be  less  of  a  busybody,  and  a 
little  more  quiet?" 

"Well,  that's  what  he  said!"  exclaimed  Remedios, 
making  an  expressive  gesture,  and  rolling  her  great, 
black  eyes. 

Quentin  began  to  laugh.     Rafaela  joined  him. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  demanded  Remedios 
of  her  sister. 


180         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

**I'm  not  laughing,  child." 

* '  Yes,  you  are.    Let 's  get  out  of  here. ' ' 

*'But,  why?" 

"Yes;  come  on." 

*'It*s  just  a  little  notion  the  girl  has  taken,"  mur- 
mured Quentin. 

**What  business  is  it  of  yours?" 

*'My  dear  child,  if  you  grow  up  like  this,  no  one  will 
be  able  to  resist  you. ' ' 

Remedios  remained  frowning  by  Rafaela 's  side;  then 
she  saw  Juan's  little  dog,  took  it  in  her  arms,  and  run- 
ning to  the  pool,  threw  it  into  the  water. 

''What  a  creature!"  said  Rafaela,  vexed. 

They  went  to  the  pool;  the  dog  swam  to  the  edge  and 
began  to  flounder  about  without  being  able  to  get  out. 
Quentin  knelt  upon  the  ground,  and  stretching  out  his 
arm,  lifted  the  little  animal  from  the  water.  I 

''He's  shivering,"  said  Rafaela.  "Do  you  see  what 
you  have  done?"  she  added,  turning  to  her  sister — 
"He  may  die." 

Remedios,  who  had  watched  the  rescue  impassively, 
went  to  a  comer  and  sat  upon  the  ground  with  her 
face  to  the  wall. 

"Remedios!"  called  Rafaela. 

The  child  made  no  reply. 

"Come,  Remedios,"  said  Quentin,  going  over  to  her. 

"Go  away!" 

"Come,  you're  exhausting  my  patience." 

"I  won't." 

Rafaela  tried  to  seize  the  girl,  but  she  begin  to  run, 
shouting : 

"If  you  follow  me,  I'll  throw  myself  into  the  pool." 

And  she  was  making  for  it  when  Quentin  seized  her 


THE  HEART  OF  A  GIRL-CHn.D         131 

firmly  about  the  waist,  and  heedless  of  her  shrieks  and 
kicks,  handed  her  over  to  Rafaela. 

^'No,  no;  you  must  go  into  the  dark  room.  What  a 
child!" 

"No,  I  won't  do  any  more,  I  won't  do  any  more," 
sobbed  Remedios,  hiding  her  head  on  her  sister's 
shoulder,  overcome  with  shame,  and  weeping  like  a 
Magdalene. 

"When  the  tears  are  over,  she'll  be  a  little  lamb. 
Will  you  undertake  my  mission?"  Rafaela  asked 
Quentin. 

' '  If  the  little  box  is  in  Cordova,  you  may  be  sure  that 
I  shall  find  it." 

"Good!  Adiós.  We  are  going  in  to  get  over  this," 
said  Rafaela,  smiling  ironically. 

Rafaela  and  Remedios  went  up  to  their  rooms,  and 
Quentin  went  out  into  the  street. 


I 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN   SEARCH   OF   A   JEWEL-CASE 

'  *  I'  N  those  days, ' '  asserted  Don  Gil  Sabadla  in  a 
notable  article  in  El  Diario  de  Cordova,  "ha. 
Corredera  was  a  large,  rectangular  plaza  sur- 
rounded by  houses  with  heavy  balconies  and  porticos 
supported  by  thick  columns.  At  that  time  the  plaza 
had  no  dirty  and  ugly  brick  market-place ;  nor  were  the 
houses  as  neglected  as  they  are  today;  nor  did  so  much 
hedge-mustard  grow  on  the  balconies.  With  a  daily 
open-air  market,  a  plaza  used  on  great  occasions  for 
bull-fights  and  jousts,  La  Corredera  constituted  a  com- 
mercial, industrial,  and  artistic  centre  for  Cordova.  In 
that  spot  were  celebrated  regal  fiestas  of  great  renown 
in  our  locality;  there  autos  da  fé  were  consummated; 
there  Señor  Pedro  Romero  and  Pepe  Hillo  fought  bulls 
when  Charles  IV  visited  the  city;  there  the  Tablet  of 
the  Constitution  was  set  up  in  1823  with  great  enthusi- 
asm, only  to  be  torn  down  and  dragged  about  that  same 
year;  there  the  bodies  of  a  few  splendid  youths  were 
exposed,  killed  in  the  hills  with  their  guns  in  their  hands ; 
there  also  the  last  executioners  of  Cordova,  the  two  Juans 
—  Juan  Garcia  and  Juan  Montano  —  both  masters  of  the 
art  of  hanging  their  fellow  men,  had  splendid  opportuni- 
ties to  perform  the  extremely  important  duties  that  had 
been  conferred  upon  them.  Lastly,  from  there,  from 
La  Corredera,  sprang  the  rogues  of  Cordova,  relatives 

132 


IN  SEARCH  OF  A  JEWEL-CASE         133 

of  the  rascals  of  Zocodover  and  Azoguejo,  fathers  of  the 
scoundrels  of  Perchel,  and  of  the  lancers  of  Murcia,  and 
remote  ancestors  of  the  Madrid  golfos." 

And  Don  Gil,  after  enumerating  the  beauties  of  La 
Corredera,  terminated  his  article  with  the  following 
lament:  ''One  more  reason  we  have  for  thanking  our 
much-boasted-of  progress ! ' ' 

Quentin  had  been  told  that  nearly  all  of  the  pawn 
shops  in  Cordova  were  situated  in  La  Corredera,  and 
the  morning  after  his  conversation  with  Rafaela,  he  ap- 
peared there,  resolved  to  leave  no  stone  unturned  until 
he  had  discovered  the  little  box  which  he  had  been 
entrusted  to  find. 

He  entered  La  Corredera  through  the  Arco  Alto. 
From  this  spot,  the  plaza  presented  a  pleasing  and  pic- 
turesque spectacle.  It  was  like  a  harbour  filled  with  yel- 
low and  white  sails  shaking  in  the  breeze,  shining  with 
light,  and  filling  the  whole  extent  of  the  plaza.  Under 
the  dark  and  sombre  porticos,  in  the  tiny  shops  and 
booths,  there  were  little  piles  of  black  objects. 

Quentin  walked  through  the  centre  of  the  plaza.  He 
saw  permanent  booths,  like  large  huts,  where  they  sold 
grains  and  vegetables ;  and  some  that  were  portable,  like 
great  umbrellas  with  long  sticks,  which  belonged  to  green- 
grocers and  fruit-sellers.  Other  booths  were  a  bit  more 
simple,  being  merely  wide,  awningless  tables  upon  which 
walnuts  and  hazelnuts  were  heaped.  Others,  simpler 
still,  were  upon  the  ground,  "upon  the  stone  counters," 
as  the  itinerant  pedlars  called  them. 

Quentin  left  the  centre  of  the  plaza  and  entered  the 
arcade,  resolved  to  leave  no  second-hand  store  or  pawn- 
broker's establishment  unvisited.  Each  space  beneath 
the  arcade  was  occupied  by  a  booth,  and  each  column  had 


lU         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

a  little  stand  at  its  base.  On  the  inside  of  the  covered 
walk  were  the  gateways  of  inns  with  their  classic  patios, 
and  their  splendid  old  names;  such  as  the  Posada  de  la 
Puya,  or  the  Posada  del  Toro.  .  .  .  The  sandal  stores 
displayed  coils  of  plaited  grass  as  signs ;  the  drink  estab- 
lishments, shelves  full  of  coloured  bottles ;  the  saddleries, 
headstalls,  cinchas,  and  cruppers;  the  tripe  shops,  blad- 
ders, and  sieves  made  of  the  skins  of  Lucena  donkeys. 
Here  a  cane  weaver  was  making  baskets ;  there,  a  pawn- 
broker was  piling  up  several  greasy  books ;  and  near  him, 
an  old  fright  of  a  woman  was  taking  a  piece  of  hake- 
fish  from  a  frying-pan  and  placing  it  upon  a  tin 
plate. 

Even  the  sidewalks  were  occupied ;  a  vendor  of  Andú- 
jar  ware  was  pacing  up  and  down  before  his  dishes :  large 
water- jars,  and  small,  green  jags  which  were  arranged 
in  squares  upon  the  stones.  An  old  countrywoman  was 
selling  rolls  of  tinder  for  smokers ;  a  man  with  a  cap  was 
exhibiting  cigar  cases  and  shell  combs  upon  a  folding 
table. 

At  each  column  there  was  a  grinder  with  his  machine, 
or  a  hatter  with  his  caps  in  a  large  basket,  or  a  fritter- 
maker  with  his  caldron,  or  a  cobbler  with  his  bench  and 
cut  leather  and  a  basin  to  dampen  it  in.  There  were 
notes  of  gaiety  which  were  struck  by  stockings  and  hand- 
kerchiefs of  vivid  colours;  and  sinister  notes:  rows  of 
different  sized  knives  tied  to  a  wall,  on  whose  blades 
were  engraved  mottoes  as  suggestive  as  the  following: 

8i  esta  víbora  te  pica, 

No  hay  remedio  en  la  botica. 

(If  this  viper  should  sting  thee,  there  is  no  cure  for  it  in  the 
drugstore. ) 


IN  SEARCH  OF  A  JEWEL-CASE         135 

Or  as  that  other  legend,  laconic  in  its  fidelity,  written 
below  a  heart  graven  in  the  steel : 

Soy  de  mi  dueño  y  señor. 
(I  am  of  my  lord  and  master.) 

Although  he  visited  every  pawn  shop  and  second- 
hand dealer  in  the  plaza,  Quentin  failed  to  find  the 
jewel-case.  Somewhat  dazed  by  the  sun  and  the  noise, 
he  stopped  and  leaned  against  a  column  for  a  moment. 
It  was  a  babel  of  shouts  and  voices  and  songs — of  a  thou- 
sand sounds.  The  hardware  dealers  struck  horse-shoes 
with  their  hammers  in  a  queer  sort  of  rhythm ;  the  knife- 
grinders  whistled  on  their  flutes ;  the  vendor  of  medicinal 
herbs  emitted  a  melancholy  cry;  the  pine-nut  seller 
shouted  like  a  madman :  ' '  Boys  and  girls,  weep  for  pine- 
nuts!" 

There  were  cries  that  were  languid  and  sad ;  others  that 
were  rapid  and  despairing.  Some  vendors  devoted  them- 
selves to  humour;  like  the  seller  of  rolled  wafers  who 
began  his  advertisement  by  saying :  * '  Here 's  where  you 
get  your  wafers  .  .  .  they  came  from  El  Puerto — all  the 
way  for  you ! ' '  and  then  mixed  up  a  lot  of  sayings  and 
refrains.  Other  merchants  added  a  scientific  touch ;  like 
the  seller  of  tortoises,  who  dragged  the  little  animals 
along  the  ground  tied  to  a  string,  and  shouted  in  a  voice 
made  husky  by  brandy :  *  *  Come  and  buy  my  little  sea- 
roosters  ! ' ' 

All  this  rabble  of  vendors,  of  farmers,  of  women,  of 
naked  children,  and  of  beggars ;  talked,  shouted,  laughed, 
gesticulated;  it  flowed  from  the  Arco  Alto  to  the  Calle 
de  la  Espartería;  where  the  orchardists  from  El  Ruedo 
waited  to  bargain  with  the  farmers ;  it  entered  the  Plaza 
de  las  Cañas,  and  while  the  multitude  moved  about,  the 


1S6         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

winter  sun,  yellow,  brilliant  as  gold,  fell  upon  and  rever- 
berated from  the  white  awnings. 

Quentin  went  through  the  Arco  Bajo  to  a  plazoleta 
where  a  group  of  old  men  were  sunning  themselves,  with 
their  cloaks  tied  to  their  bodies  and  their  stiff,  broad- 
brimmed  hats  pulled  down  over  their  eyes.  The  major- 
ity of  them  were  so  preoccupied  in  their  noble  task  of 
doing  nothing,  that  Quentin  dared  not  bother  them  with 
questions,  so  he  made  his  way  toward  a  lupine-seller  who 
was  seated  beneath  a  small  awning  which  sheltered  him 
from  the  sun. 

The  man  had  fastened  a  frame  to  the  wall  which  served 
him  as  an  awning.  As  the  red  disk  of  the  sun  descended 
in  the  heavens,  the  man  changed  the  angle  of  the  frame, 
always  keeping  himself  in  the  shade. 

This  wise  fellow,  who  was  reading  a  paper  at  the  mo- 
ment through  a  pair  of  glasses,  wore  a  high-crowned, 
sugar-loaf  hat ;  he  had  the  small,  gentle  eyes  of  a  drunk- 
ard, a  long,  twisted,  red  nose,  and  a  white,  pointed  beard. 
When  Quentin  accosted  him,  he  lifted  his  eyes  with  in- 
difference, looked  over  his  glasses,  and  said : 
-   *' Sweetmeats ?     Lupine?" 

**No;  I  would  like  you  to  tell  me  if  there  is  a  pawn 
shop  around  here  besides  those  in  La  Corredera." 

*  *  Sí,  Señor ;  there  is  one  in  the  Plaza  de  la  Almagra. ' ' 

''Where  is  that?" 

"Near  here.    Would  you  like  me  to  go  with  you?" 

**No,  thanks.     They  might  steal  your  wares." 

*'Pish!  What  would  they  want  them  for?"  And 
the  ingenious  chap  with  the  sugar-loaf  hat  came  out  from 
behind  his  awning,  tipped  his  hat  toward  one  ear, 
caressed  his  goatee,  and  flourishing  a  white  stick,  aban- 
doned his  basket  of  lupine  to  fate,  and  accompanied 


IN  SEARCH  OF  A  JEWEL-CASE         137 

;  Quentin  until  he  left  him  in  front  of  a  second-hand 
I  store. 

''Thank  you  very  much,  caballero/'  said  Quentin. 

The  wise  man  smiled,  shifted  his  high-crowned  hat 
I  from  his  left  ear  to  his  right,  swung  his  stick,  and,  after 
j  bowing  ceremoniously,  departed. 

i  Quentin  entered  the  shop  and  explained  to  the  clerk 
what  he  was  looking  for.  The  man,  after  listening  to 
him,  said: 

"I've  got  that  jewel-case. 

"Will  you  show  it  to  me?" 

"I  don't  know  why  I  shouldn't." 

The  man  opened  a  writing-desk,  and  from  the  bottom 
of  one  of  the  drawers  took  out  a  small,  blackened  box. 
It  had  a  coronet  upon  the  cover,  but  the  lining  had  been 
torn  out,  so  they  could  not  see  the  initials  that  Rafaela 
had  mentioned  to  Quentin.  Nevertheless,  it  was  prob- 
ably the  right  box.     Quentin  wished  to  make  sure. 

* '  Do  you  mind  telling  me, ' '  he  asked,  ' '  where  this  box 
came  from?" 

"Are  you  so  interested  in  it?"  questioned  the  pawn- 
broker rather  sarcastically. 

"Yes;  but  it  is  because  I  wish  to  make  sure  that  it 
is  the  one  I  am  looking  for." 

"Well,  I  don't  mind  saying  where  it  came  from,  for 
I  am  sure  that  the  man  who  sold  it  to  me  owned  it. ' ' 

"Is  it  from  the  house  of  a  marquis?" 

"Si,  Señor." 

"Of  one  who  lives  on  the  Calle  del  Sol?" 

"Si,  Señor." 

"How  much  do  you  want  for  it?" 

"Seventy  dollars." 

"The  devil!     That's  a  good  deal." 


138         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

**It's  worth  it.  A  man  who  knew  about  such  things 
would  give  me  a  hundred  dollars  for  it;  perhaps 
more.  ..." 

**Very  well.  If  I  cannot  come  and  get  it  today,  I 
shall  be  here  tomorrow.*' 

''Very  well." 

Quentin  went  home  deep  in  thought.  Where  was  he 
going  to  get  those  seventy  dollars?  He  entered  the 
store  and  went  to  see  Palomares. 

''Could  you  let  me  have  seventy  dollars  today?"  he 
inquired. 

' '  Seventy  dollars !    Where  am  I  going  to  get  it  ? " 

"Don't  you  know  any  one  who  lends  money?" 

"You've  got  to  have  a  guarantee  if  you  want  any  one 
to  lend  you  money;  and  what  guarantee  are  you  going 
to  give?" 

"The  fact  is,  I've  got  to  have  the  money  today." 

"Look  here;  come  to  the  store  on  the  Calle  de  la 
Espartería  this  evening,  and  we'll  see  what  we  can  do." 

At  six  o'clock,  Quentin  went  to  the  store.  He  had 
never  been  there  before.  It  was  small,  but  overstocked 
with  goods,  and,  at  that  hour,  crowded  with  purchasers. 

"Is  Don  Rafael  in?"  Quentin  asked  a  clerk. 

' '  There,  in  the  back  room. ' ' 

Quentin  went  in,  and  found  himself  in  a  small  room 
with  various  shelves  full  from  top  to  bottom  of  tins  of 
all  kinds  and  colours,  bottles,  flasks,  and  jars.  One 
breathed  there  a  mixed  odour  of  cinnamon,  petroleum, 
coffee,  and  cod-fish.  In  that  little  shop  of  nutritious 
produce,  three  persons  were  engaged  in  conversation 
with  Don  Rafael.  Quentin  greeted  them  and  sat 
down. 

One  of  the  three  persons  was  a  prebendary  by  the 


IN  SEARCH  OF  A  JEWEL-CASE         139 

name  of  Espego,  whom  they  called  Espejito  on  account 
of  his  small  stature.  Espejito  had  a  sly  look,  and  was 
pacing  about  the  back  room  with  his  hands  behind  his 
back. 

The  second  member  of  the  coterie  was  a  lean  man  with 
very  thin  legs,  which  were  wide  apart  like  those  of  a 
compass;  he  had  a  face  like  a  tunny-fish,  with  a  fixed, 
penetrating,  and  suspicious  glance.  He  was  called 
Camacha,  and  was  a  solicitor.  He  wore  a  short  mous- 
tache, side-whiskers  that  reached  to  the  bottom  of  his 
ears,  a  broad-brimmed  hat  tipped  to  one  side,  and  very 
tight  trousers. 

The  third  member  was  leaning  back  in  a  chair ;  he  was 
a  sexagenarian  with  a  roman  profile ;  his  face  was  full  of 
fleshy  wrinkles ;  his  nose,  crooked  and  aquiline,  hung  over 
his  upper  lip  like  a  vulture  over  its  prey ;  his  eyes  were 
staring  and  sunken ;  his  mouth  contemptuous  and  bitter, 
and  his  skin,  lemon-coloured.  He  wore  a  black  handker- 
chief tied  about  his  head ;  over  it,  a  broad-brimmed  hat, 
also  black ;  and  over  his  shoulders,  a  roomy,  dark-brown 
cloak  with  large  folds. 

This  gentleman,  the  owner  of  a  number  of  farms  about 
Cordova,  was  called  Don  Matías  Armenta. 

The  four  men  talked  slowly  and  disjointedly. 

"I  believe  there  are  guarantees,"  murmured  one  of 
them  from  time  to  time. 

''That's  what  I  think." 

* '  The  condition  of  the  house  ..." 

''Is  not  satisfactory,  that's  certain;  but  to  re- 
spond ..." 

"That's  what  I  think." 

"We'll  speak  of  that  some  other  day." 

"I'm  in  the  way  here,"  thought  Quentin,  and  he  went 


140  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

into  the  store  and  sat  down  upon  a  bench,  waiting  for 
Palomares  to  appear. 

Palomares  went  into  the  back  room,  and  at  the  end  of  a 
short  time,  came  out  and  said  to  Quentin : 

''Well,  my  lad,  it  can't  be  done." 

Quentin  went  into  the  street  cursing  his  stepfather 
and  the  old  cronies  who  were  with  him  for  a  trio  of 
usurers  of  the  worst  kind.  He  was  walking  along  the 
streets  wondering  how  he  was  to  get  the  money,  when 
he  remembered  the  offer  Señora  Patrocinio  had  made  to 
him  the  night  he  and  Don  Gil  Sabadla  were  in  her  house. 

''Let's  go  there,"  he  said  to  himself.  "We'll  see  if 
she  makes  good  her  offer. ' ' 

He  made  his  way  to  Los  Tejares  where  Señora  Pa- 
trocinio lived.  The  door  of  the  house  was  open.  Quen- 
tin knocked,  and,  as  no  one  answered,  he  walked  in. 

' '  Señora  Patrocinio ! "  he  cried. 

"Who  is  it?"  came  from  above. 

' '  A  man  who  comes  to  ask  for  something. ' ' 

"Well,  we  give  nothing  here." 

"I  am  Quentin." 

"  Ah !     It 's  you  ?     Come  in  and  wait  for  me. '  * 

"What  beautiful  confidence!"  said  Quentin,  seating 
himself  in  the  vestibule,  which  was  nearly  in  darkness. 

Just  then  he  heard  footsteps  upon  the  stairs,  and  a 
woman  veiled  in  a  black  mantilla  descended  with 
Señora  Patrocinio. 

The  veiled  lady  looked  at  Quentin  as  she  passed;  he 
returned  the  look  with  curiosity,  and  would  have  gone  to 
the  door  to  see  her  better,  had  not  Señora  Patrocinio 
seized  him  by  the  arm. 

"Come,"  said  the  old  woman,  "what's  the  matter!'' 

"Señora  Patrocinio,"  Quentin  stammered,  "send  me 


IN  SEARCH  OF  A  JEWEL-CASE         141 

away  and  take  me  for  an  idiot  if  my  request  seems  stupid 
to  you.     I  have  come  to  ask  for  money." 

^ '  Have  you  been  gambling  ? " 

'^No." 

' '  How  much  do  you  need  ? '  * 

'^Seventy  dollars." 

'  ^  Come,  that 's  not  much.     Follow  me. ' ' 

I      Quentin  and  the  old  woman  climbed  to  the  second  floor 

j  and    entered    a    room    which    contained    a    large    bed. 

'  Señora  Patrocinio   took   a  key   from   her  pocket,   and 

opened  a  cabinet.     She  clawed  inside  of  it  with  her  de- 

i  formed  hands  until  she  brought  forth  a  bulging  purse. 

Í  She  opened  it,  removed  from  it  a  roll  of  coins  wrapped 

in  paper,  broke  it  over  the  bed,  and  scattered  several 

gold-pieces  upon  the  coverlet.     The  old  woman  counted 

out  twenty  twenty-peseta  pieces  and  offered  them  to 

!  Quentin. 

' '  Take  them, ' '  she  said. 

' '  But  you  're  giving  me  too  much.  Señora  Patrocinio. '  * 

*  *  Bah !     They  won 't  weigh  you  down. '  * 

* '  Thanks  very  much ! ' ' 

*'You  must  not  thank  me.  I  only  want  one  thing, 
and  that  is  that  you  come  to  see  me  now  and  then. 
Some  day  I  '11  explain  our  relationship  and  what  I  expect 
of  you. ' ' 

''Very  well." 

Quentin  took  the  money  and  left  the  house  joyfully. 
It  was  night,  and  he  thought  that  the  pawn  shop  on  the 
Plaza  de  la  Almagra  might  be  closed,  but  he  went  by  to 
make  sure,  and  found  it  still  open.  He  took  the  jewel- 
case  and  went  home. 

''The  truth  is,  I'm  a  lucky  man,"  he  murmured  glee- 
fully. 


142         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Quentin  slept  peacefully,  rocked  by  sweet  expecta- 
tions.    The  next  afternoon  he  went  to  the  Calle  del  Sol. 

He  found  the  gate  open,  and  passed  on  into  the  gar- 
den. The  gardener  was  not  there.  He  went  upstairs 
and  rang  the  bell.  The  tall,  dried-up  servant  who  came 
to  the  door,  said : 

''The  young  ladies  are  in  the  kitchen." 

''Well,  let's  go  there." 

They  went  through  a  series  of  corridors  and  entered 
the  kitchen.  It  was  an  enormous  place,  with  a  high  sky- 
light through  which  at  that  moment  there  filtered  a  ray 
of  sunlight  that  fell  upon  the  blond,  somewhat  mussed- 
up  hair  of  Rafaela. 

Rafaela  and  Remedios  turned  at  the  sound  of  footsteps. 

' '  Oh,  is  it  you  1  You  have  found  us  in  a  pretty  mess, '  * 
said  Rafaela,  showing  him  her  hands  covered  with  flour. 

"What  are  you  making?"  asked  Quentin. 

"Some  fried-cakes." 

"It  smells  deliciously  in  here." 

"Have  you  a  sweet  tooth?"  asked  Rafaela. 

"Somewhat." 

' '  This  is  the  one  with  a  sweet  tooth, '  *  said  Rafaela,  in- 
dicating Remedios.  "Let's  get  out  of  here,  she'll  have 
indigestion  if  we  don't." 

Rafaela  washed  her  hands  and  arms,  dried  them  care- 
fully, and  led  the  way  from  the  kitchen  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

"I've  got  the  little  box  here,"  announced  Quentin. 

"Oh,  really?  Give  it  to  me.  Thank  you!  Thank 
you  very  much  indeed !     How  much  did  it  cost  you  ? ' ' 

' '  Nothing.  ...  A  mere  trifle. ' ' 

*  *  No,  no,  that 's  not  possible.  Please  tell  me  how  much 
you  paid  for  it." 


IN  SEARCH  OF  A  JEWEL-CASE         léS 

i        ** Won't  you  accept  this  small  favour  from  me?" 

I       **No ;  for  I  realize  that  it  must  have  cost  you  a  lot." 

!       ''Bah!" 

!        ''I'll  find  out,  and  then  we'll  talk  about  it  further." 

I        Remedios,  approaching  Quentin  mysteriously,  said  to 

I    him: 

i       "Is  it  true  that  there  is  a  store  in  your  house?'* 

"Yes." 

"Are  there  sweets  in  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Will  you  bring  me  some?" 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  bring  you?" 

' '  Bring  me  some  white  taffy,  some  hard  candy,  a  lady- 
finger,  and  a  sugar-plum." 

"But,  child,  you  want  a  whole  candy  shop!"  said 
Rafaela. 

"Then  just  some  taffy  and  cake,  eh?" 

"Very  well." 

"But  lots  of  it." 

"Yes." 

"Fine:  now  sing  for  us!" 

Í' '  Gracious,  what  a  bold  little  girl ! ' '  exclaimed  Rafaela. 
They  opened  the  drawing-room  windows,  and  Quentin 
sat  at  the  piano  and  played  the  opening  chords  of  the 
baritone  aria  from  Rigoletto.  Then,  in  a  hearty  voice, 
he  began : 

Deh  non  parlare  al  misero 
del  suo  perduto  henf  .  .  . 

He  suddenly  recalled  his  school,  his  friends;  then  he 
felt  sentimental,  and  put  a  real  sadness  in  his  tones. 
When  he  sang.  Solo,  difforme,  povero,  he  felt  almost  like 
weeping. 

After  Bigoletto  came  the  song  from  Un  "ballo ; 


144         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Eri  tu  che  machiavi  .  .  . 

Quentin  exhausted  his  repertoire ;  he  sang  all  the  songs 
from  the  Italian  operas  that  he  knew ;  and  then,  exagger- 
ating his  English  accent,  he  sang  Rule  Britannia!  and 
God  Save  the  Queen! 

The  two  sisters  and  the  old  servant  sewed  as  they  lis- 
tened to  Quentin,  who  kept  up  a  steady  stream  of  con- 
versation like  a  stage  comedian.  They  laughed  at  his 
stories  and  clownish  tricks. 

He  had  an  inexhaustible  supply,  and  related  many 
anecdotes  and  adventures  that  were  mostly  invented  by 
himself.  .  .  . 

The  afternoon  passed  very  quickly.  From  the  balcony 
they  could  see  the  dark  mountain  outlined  strongly 
against  the  blue  of  the  sky.  The  sun,  very  low  in  the 
horizon,  was  leaving  long  shadows  of  chimneys  and 
towers  on  the  grey  roofs,  and  reddening  the  belfries  with 
an  ideal  light  that  grew  paler  with  each  passing  moment. 

They  could  scarcely  see  within  the  room;  the  old 
servant  brought  in  a  lamp  and  placed  it  upon  the  table. 
Quentin  took  leave  of  the  two  sisters. 

On  his  way  out,  he  paused  before  the  window  over- 
looking the  garden.  The  atmosphere  was  unusually 
clear;  the  sky  was  deepening  to  an  intense  blue.  Dis- 
tant objects;  the  white  gardens  upon  the  hillside,  the 
hermitages  among  the  cypress  trees,  the  great  round- 
topped  pine  trees  upon  the  summit,  ...  all  could  be 
seen  in  detail. 

It  grew  darker ;  in  the  black,  rectangular  patch  of  the 
pool,  a  star  commenced  to  twinkle,  then  another,  until 
a  multitude  of  luminous  points  trembled  in  its  deep, 
quiet  waters. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Á   PICNIC   AND   A   RIDE 

*'  A  REN'T  you  going  to  Los  Pedroches?"  Re- 
/'^\      medios   asked    Quentin   one   day.     The   two 

X  JL  sisters  and  the  old  woman  were  sewing  in  the 
drawing-room. 

''What's  doing  there?"  he  asked. 

*'The  Candelaria  Picnic,"  answered  Rafaela. 

"Are  you  going?" 

' '  Yes,  I  believe  so.     We  are  going  with  our  cousins. ' ' 

Quentin  fell  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Aren't  you  going?"  Remedios  asked  again. 

"I?     No.     I  don't  know  any  one." 

' '  Don 't  you  know  us  ? "  she  asked. 

"Yes;  but  I'd  bother  you.  ..." 

"Why?"  asked  Rafaela  pleasantly. 

"And  if  I  did  not  bother  you,  I  should  be  certain  to 
annoy  your  cousins;  perhaps  they  wouldn't  like  me  to 
bow  to  you." 

Rafaela  became  silent;  implying,  though  perhaps  un- 
wittingly, that  what  Quentin  had  said  might  be  true. 
So,  somewhat  embarrassed,  he  said: 

"What  do  they  do  there?" 

"Not  much  nowadays,"  answered  the  old  woman. 
"There  are  a  few  dances  and  supper  parties  .  .  .  but 
the  best  thing  about  it  used  to  be  the  return  home:  it 

145 


146         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

was  the  custom  for  every  lad  to  bring  a  lass  back  to 
town  on  his  horse's  croup." 

''Has  that  custom  died  out?"  asked  Quentin. 

''Yes." 

"Why  don't  they  still  follow  it?" 

"On  account  of  the  fights  they  had  coming  back," 
answered  the  old  woman.  "Boys,  and  men  too,  took 
to  scaring  the  horses,  and  some  of  the  riders  fell  off  and 
began  to  fight  furiously  with  both  fists  and  guns. ' ' 

"You  seem  to  know  all  about  it,"  said  Rafaela  to  the 
old  woman.     "Have  you  ever  been  in  Los  Pedroches?" 

"Yes;  with  a  sweetheart  of  mine  who  carried  me  be- 
hind him  on  his  horse." 

"My!  What  a  rascal!  .  .  .  What  a  rascal!"  ex- 
claimed Rafaela. 

"When  we  reached  Malmuerta,"  the  old  servant  con- 
tinued, "they  frightened  our  horse,  so  my  sweetheart, 
who  had  a  short  fowling-piece  on  his  saddle,  made  as  if 
to  shoot  it,  and  the  people  couldn't  get  away  fast 
enough.  ..." 

Quentin  decided  to  go  to  the  picnic. 

"I'm  going  to  Los  Pedroches,  mother,"  he  said  to 
Fuensanta. 

"That's  good,  my  son,"  she  replied,  "go  out  and  have 
a  good  time." 

' '  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  haven 't  any  money. ' ' 

"  I  '11  give  you  what  you  need ;  and  I  '11  find  you  some 
riding  clothes,  too." 

Quentin  hired  a  big  horse  with  a  cowboy  saddle ;  then, 
following  his  mother's  instructions,  he  put  on  a  short 
jacket  covered  with  ribbons  and  braid,  fringed  leggings. 


A  PICNIC  AND  A  RIDE  147 

a  tasseled  shawl  across  the  saddle  bow,  and  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat. 

He  mounted  at  the  door  of  his  house.  He  was  a  good 
horseman,  and  as  he  jumped  into  the  saddle,  he  made 
his  horse  rear.  He  brought  him  down  at  once,  waved  to 
his  mother  who  was  on  the  balcony,  and  rode  off  at  a 
smart  pace. 

He  went  out  through  the  Puerta  de  Osario  to  the 
Campo  de  la  Merced,  under  the  Arco  de  la  Malmuerta 
and  turned  his  horse's  head  toward  the  Carrera  de  la 
Fuensantilla.  There  he  noticed  the  unusual  exodus  of 
people  making  their  way  in  groups  toward  Los  Pe- 
droches. 

It  was  a  splendid  February  afternoon.  The  sun 
■poured,  down  like  a  golden  rain  upon  the  green  country- 
side, and  smiled  in  the  fields  of  new  wheat  which  were 
dotted  with  red  flowers  and  yellow  buds.  Here  and  there 
a  dark  hut  or  a  stack  of  straw  surmounted  by  a  cross 
arose  in  the  broad  expanse  of  cultivated  lands. 

Quentin  rode  swiftly  along  the  highway,  which  was 
bordered  at  intervals  by  large,  grey  century-plants,  from 
among  whose  pulpous  branches  rose  flocks  of  chirping 
birds. 

He  reached  the  picnic-grounds:  a  meadow  near  the 
Los  Pedroches  ravine.  The  people  were  scattered  over 
the  meadow  in  groups.  The  bright  and  showy  dresses 
of  the  girls  shone  in  the  sun  afar  off  against  the  green 
background  of  the  field.  As  Quentin  drew  near  the 
fiesta-grounds,  some  groups  were  eating  supper,  and 
others  were  playing  the  guitar  and  dancing. 

In  some  placea,  where  the  dancers  were  doubtless 
experts,  curious  onlookers  crowded  about  them.     An  old 


148         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

man  with  side-whiskers  was  playing  the  guitar  with  great 
skill,  and  a  dancer  in  a  narrow-waisted  suit  was  pursuing 
his  graceful  partner  with  his  arms  held  high  in  the  air; 
and  one  could  hear  the  clacking  of  castanets,  and  the 
encouraging  applause  of  the  onlookers. 

It  was  a  peaceful  happiness,  dignified  and  serene. 
Girls  in  showy  dresses,  Manilla  shawls,  and  with  flowers 
in  their  hair,  were  strolling  about,  accompanied  by  sour- 
visaged  dueñas  and  proud  youths. 

A  little  apart  from  the  centre  of  the  picnic,  the  more 
wealthy  families  were  lunching  peacefully;  while  little 
boys  and  girls  were  screeching  as  they  swung  in  the 
swings  hung  from  the  trees. 

There  were  vendors  of  oranges  and  apples  and  walnuts 
and  chestnuts;  and  taffy  women  with  their  little  booths 
of  sweets  and  brandy. 

Quentin  went  around  the  grounds  looking  all  about 
him,  searching  for  his  cousins;  and  at  last,  in  a  little 
unpopulated  grove,  he  caught  sight  of  them  among  a 
group  of  several  boys  and  girls. 

Remedios  recognized  Quentin  when  he  was  still  some 
distance  away,  and  waving  her  hand  at  him,  she  rose  to 
meet  him.     Quentin  rode  up  to  her. 

* '  Where  are  you  going  ? ' '  the  girl  inquired. 

''For  a  little  ride.'* 

**Do  you  want  a  cake?'* 

*  *  If  you  will  give  .  .  . ' ' 

*' Come  on." 

Quentin  dismounted,  walked  up  to  the  group,  gave 
his  hand  to  Rafaela,  and  greeted  the  others  with  a  bow. 
Undoubtedly  Rafaela  had  informed  her  friends  who  the 
horseman  was,  for  Quentin  noticed  that  several  of  the 
girls  looked  at  him  curiously. 


A  PICNIC  AND  A  RIDE  149 

He  took  the  cake  that  Remedios  gave  him,  and  a  glass 
of  wine. 

' '  Won 't  you  sit  down  ? ' '  Rafaela  asked  him. 

''Thank  you,  no.     I'm  going  for  a  ride  along  the 
,  mountain. ' ' 

Ipl  As  he  drew  near  Rafaela,  Quentin  noticed  the  look 
of  hatred  that  one  of  the  young  men  present  cast  at 
him. 

"He's  a  rival,"  he  thought. 

From  that  instant,  the  two  boys  were  consumed  with 
hatred  for  each  other.  The  young  man  was  tall,  blond, 
with  a  certain  rusticity  about  him  in  spite  of  his  elegant 
clothes.  Quentin  heard  them  call  him  Juan  de  Dios. 
The  youth  spoke  in  a  rather  uncultured  manner,  con- 
verting his  s^s  into  z's,  his  r^s  into  Vs,  and  vice  versa. 
He  gazed  fixedly  at  Rafaela,  and  from  time  to  time  said 
to  her: 

' '  Why  don 't  you  drink  a  little  something  ? ' ' 

Rafaela  thanked  him  with  a  smile.  Among  the  girls 
were  Rafaela 's  two  cousins;  the  elder,  Maria  de  los 
Angeles,  had  a  nose  like  a  parrot,  green  pop-eyes,  and  a 
salient  under  lip ;  Transito,  the  younger,  was  better  look- 
ing, but  her  expression,  which  was  half  haughty  and  half 
indifferent,  did  not  captivate  one 's  sympathies.  Like  her 
sister,  she  had  green  eyes,  and  thin  lips  with  a  strange 
curve  to  them  that  gave  her  a  cruel  expression. 

Transito  questioned  Quentin  in  a  bantering  and  sar- 
castic tone;  he  replied  to  her  pleasantly,  with  feigned 
modesty,  and  in  purposely  broken  Spanish.  Presently 
he  announced  his  intention  of  going. 

"What,  are  you  going?"  asked  Rafaela. 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  us?"  said  Transito. 


160         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

*' Afraid  of  being  enchanted,"  replied  Quentin  gal- 
lantly, as  he  bowed  and  went  in  search  of  his  horse. 

**Wait!     Take  me  on  the  croup,"  Remedios  shouted. 

*'No,  no;  you'll  fall,"  said  Rafaela. 

*'No,  I  won't,"  replied  the  child. 

*  *  The  horse  is  gentle, ' '  Quentin  put  in. 

* '  Very  well  then ;  you  may  take  her  for  a  while. '  * 

Quentin  mounted  rapidly,  and  Remedios  climbed  upon 
the  step  of  the  carriage  that  stood  near.  Quentin  rode 
up  to  her  and  stuck  out  his  left  foot  for  her  to  use  as  a 
support.  The  little  girl  stepped  upon  it,  and  seizing 
Quentin  about  the  waist,  leaped  to  the  horse 's  croup  and 
threw  her  arms  about  the  rider. 

''See  how  well  I  do  it,"  said  she  to  her  sister,  who 
was  fearfully  watching  these  manoeuvres. 

"I  see  well  enough." 

"Where  shall  we  go?"  Quentin  asked  the  girl. 

"Right  through  the  picnic-grounds." 

They  rode  among  the  groups;  the  arrogance  of  the 
rider  and  the  grace  of  Remedios  with  her  red  flower  in 
her  hair,  attracted  the  attention  of  the  crowd. 

' '  There 's  a  pair  for  you ! ' '  said  some  as  they  watched 
them  ride  by;  and  she  smiled  with  her  shining  eyes. 

Following  Remedios'  orders,  Quentin  rode  back  and 
forth  among  the  places  which  she  pointed  out  to  him. 

"Now  let's  go  to  the  mountain." 

Quentin  rode  up  hill  for  half  an  hour. 

The  afternoon  was  drawing  to  a  close ;  the  shadows  of 
the  trees  were  lengthening  on  the  grass;  white  clouds, 
solid  as  blocks  of  marble,  with  their  under  sides  ablaze, 
floated  slowly  over  the  mountain ;  the  air  smelt  of  rose- 
mary and  thyme.  Cordova  appeared  upon  the  plain 
enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  golden  dust;  beyond  her  undu- 


A  PICNIC  AND  A  RIDE  151 

lated  low  hills  of  vivid  green,  stretching  in  echelon  one 
behind  the  other,  until  they  were  lost  in  the  distance  in 
a  golden  haze  of  vibrating  light.  Over  the  roofs  of  the 
city  rose  church  towers,  slate-covered  cupolas,  black, 
sharp-pointed  cypresses.  From  between  the  walls  of  a 
garden,  with  a  very  tall  and  twisted  trunk,  a  gigantic 
palm  tree  raised  its  head — ^like  a  spider  stuck  to  the 
sky.  .  .  . 

Quentin  turned  back  with  the  idea  of  leaving  Remedios 
with  her  sister. 

''Well,  well!"  Rafaela  exclaimed.  "You  certainly 
can 't  complain.  We  Ve  been  waiting  for  you  to  go  home 
with  us.     Come,  get  down." 

*'No;  he's  going  to  take  me  home — aren't  you,  Quen- 
tin?" 

''Whatever  you  wish." 

"Well,  let's  be  going." 

"We're  off!" 

"Look  out  for  jokers,"  warned  Rafaela 's  cousin 
Transito. 

They  took  the  road  cityward,  riding  among  the  groups 
who  were  returning  from  the  fiesta. 

They  could  see  Cordova  in  the  twilight  with  the  last 
rays  of  the  sun  quivering  upon  its  towers.  In  some 
houses  the  windows  were  commencing  to  light  up; 
in  the  dark  blue  sky,  the  stars  were  beginning  to  ap- 
pear. 

Neither  Quentin  nor  the  girl  spoke;  they  rode  along 
in  silence,  swaying  with  the  motion  of  the  horse.  They 
reached  the  Carrera  de  la  Fuensantilla,  and  from  there 
followed  Las  Ollerías.  At  the  first  gate  they  came  to, 
Ei  Colodro,  Quentin  thought  he  saw  a  group  that  might 
have  stationed  itself  there  with  the  intention  of  frighten- 


15^         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

ing  the  horses  of  the  passers-by;  so  he  went  on  through! 
the  Arco  de  la  Malmuerta  to  the  Campo  de  la  Merced. 

Here  there  was  a  group  of  little  boys  and  young  men, 
one  of  whom  had  a  whip. 

"Be  careful,  child;  hold  on  to  me  tightly,"  said 
Quentin. 

She  squeezed  the  rider 's  waist  with  her  arms. 

"Are  you  ready?" 

"Yes." 

The  group  of  young  people  came  toward  Quentin,  one 
of  them  brandishing  the  whip.     Before  they  had  time  to  i 
frighten  his  horse,  Quentin  drove  in  his  spurs  and  slack-  \ 
ened  his  reins.     The  animal  gave  a  jump,  knocked  down  Í 
several  of  the  jokers,  and  broke  into  a  gallop,  spreading 
consternation  among  the  youngsters.     When  they  had 
passed  the  Campo  de  la  Merced,  Quentin  reined  in  his 
horse  and  began  to  walk  again. 

"How  did  you  like  that,  little  girl?"  asked  Quentin. 

"Fine!  Fine!"  exclaimed  Remedios,  brimming  over 
with  delight.     * '  They  wanted  to  shoot  us. '  * 

"And  they  fell  down." 

The  girl  laughed  delightedly.  Quentin  guided  his 
horse  to  the  Puerta  del  Osario,  and  once  through  it, 
threaded  his  way  along  lonely  alleyways.  The  horse 
went  at  a  walk,  his  iron  shoes  resounding  loudly  on  the 
pavement. 

'  *  Would  you  like  me  to  treat  you  ? ' '  asked  Quentin. 

"Yes."  i 

They  were  passing  a  tavern  called  El  Postiguillo;  so 
Quentin  stopped  his  horse,  clapped  his  hands  loudly 
twice,  and  the  innkeeper  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"What  does  the  little  girl  want?"  said  the  man. 

"Whatever  you  have,"  answered  Remedios. 


A  PICNIC  AND  A  RIDE  16S 

''A  few  cakes,  and  two  small  glasses  of  Montilla?" 

' '  Would  you  like  that  ? ' '  asked  Quentin. 

^'Very  much." 

They  ate  the  cakes,  drank  the  wine  and  went  on  their 
way.  Just  as  they  reached  the  Calle  del  Sol,  a  carriage 
stopped  at  the  door,  from  which  Eafaela,  her  cousins, 
and  the  blond  young  man  descended.  The  latter,  who 
helped  the  girls  down,  called  to  Remedios :  "  I  '11  be  with 
you  in  a  moment ! ' '  But  the  girl  pretended  not  to  hear 
him,  and  called  Juan.  Quentin  took  the  child  by  the 
waist  and  lifted  her  into  the  arms  of  the  gardener; 
then  he  bowed,  and  turned  his  horse  up  the  street. 

When  he  reached  his  house,  he  found  that  his  family 
had  not  yet  returned  from  the  picnic.  He  saw  Palo- 
mares in  the  street  and  joined  him ;  gave  his  horse  to  a 
boy  to  take  to  the  livery  stable,  and,  in  the  company  of 
the  clerk,  entered  a  café.  He  told  him  how  he  had 
passed  the  afternoon,  and  then  began  to  speak  casually 
of  his  grandfather's  family. 

* '  It  looks  as  if  they  were  about  ruined,  eh  ? " 

' '  Yes ;  completely. ' ' 

''Still  they  must  have  some  cash  haven't  they?" 
j  *  *  Oof !  The  old  man  was  very  rich ;  more  through  his 
wife  than  himself.  He  is  a  fine  man  but  very  extrava- 
gant. When  the  rebel  leader  Gomez  took  possession  of 
Cordova  the  old  Marquis,  who  was  then  a  Carlist,  took 
him  in  and  gave  him  thousands  of  dollars.  He  has 
always  spent  his  money  lavishly. ' ' 

"What  about  the  son?" 

' '  The  son  is  nothing  like  his  father.  He  is  a  disagree- 
able profligate." 

''And  the  son's  wife?" 

"La  Aceitunera?     She's  a  sinner  of  the  first  water.'* 


154         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

^'Pretty,  eh?" 

** Rather!  A  fine  lass  with  unbounded  wit.  When 
she  left  her  husband,  she  went  to  live  with  Periquito 
Gal  vez;  but  now  they  say  she  is  trotting  about  with  a 
lieutenant.  Just  pull  Juan  the  gardener's  tongue  a  bit, 
and  he  '11  tell  you  some  curious  things. ' ' 

''Didn't  the  family  ever  have  any  relative  clever 
enough  to  save  it  from  ruin  ? "  1 

' '  Yes ;  the  Marquis  has  a  brother  called  El  Polio  Real ; 
but  he  is  a  selfish  sort  who  doesn't  want  to  mix  in  any- 
thing for  fear  they  will  ask  him  for  money.  Have  you 
never  seen  him?'* 

''No." 

"Well,  El  Polio  Real  has  been  a  Tenorio.  Now  he  is 
a  half  paralytic.  They  say  that  he  is  devoting  himself 
to  writing  the  history  of  his  love  affairs,  and  has  hired 
a  painter  to  paint  pictures  of  all  his  mistresses.  He's 
been  at  it  for  years.  The  first  artist  he  had  was  a  friend 
of  mine  from  Seville,  and  he  used  to  tell  me  that  El 
Polio  Real  would  give  him  a  miniature  or  a  photograph 
for  him  to  enlarge,  and  then  he  would  explain  what  the 
subjects  looked  like :  whether  blondes  or  brunettes,  tall  or 
short,  marchionesses  or  gipsies." 

"Do  you  know  Rafaela?" 

"  Do  I  know  her !     Rather !     Poor  little  girl ! ' ' 

"Why  'poor  little  girl'?"  exclaimed  Quentin,  feeling 
cold  from  head  to  foot. 

"The  girl  has  had  hard  luck." 

"Why,  what  happened  to  her?" 

' '  Oh,  affairs  of  a  wealthy  family,  which  are  always  mis- 
erable. After  she  was  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  old, 
Rafaela  was  engaged  to  the  son  of  a  Cordovese  count. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  two  children  loved  each  other,  and 


A  PICNIC  AND  A  RIDE  155 

they  made  a  fine  couple.  They  were  always  seen  to- 
gether; going  for  walks,  and  in  the  theatre;  when  it 
began  to  be  rumoured  that  the  Marquis'  family  was  on  its 
way  to  ruin.  Then  her  sweetheart  went  away  to  Madrid. 
Month  after  month  went  by,  and  the  lad  did  not  return ; 
finally  some  one  brought  the  news  that  he  had  married 
a  3^oung  millionairess  in  Madrid.  Rafaela  was  ill  for 
several  months,  and  since  that  time  she  has  never  been 
as  well  or  as  gay  as  she  used  to  be. " 

Quentin  listened  to  this  story  profoundly  mortified. 
He  no  longer  cared  to  ask  questions;  he  arose,  left  the 
café,  and  took  leave  of  Palomares. 

He  was  unable  to  sleep  that  night. 

*'Why  this  anger  and  mortification?"  he  asked  him- 
self. ''What  difference  does  it  make  whether  Rafaela 
has  had  a  sweetheart  or  not  f  Aren  't  you  going  to  work 
out  your  problem,  Quentin  1  Aren  't  you  going  to  follow 
out  your  plan  in  life?  Aren't  you  a  good  Boeotian? 
Aren  't  you  a  swine  in  the  herd  of  Epicurus  ? ' ' 

In  spite  of  Quentin 's  efforts  to  convince  himself  that 
he  ought  not  to  be  irritated,  it  was  impossible  to  do  so. 
Merely  to  think  that  a  man,  probably  a  young  whipper- 
snapper,  had  scorned  Rafaela,  offended  him  in  the  most 
mortifying  manner. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SPRING 

NO;  he  was  no  Boeotian;  he  was  no  Epicurean; 
he  could  not  say  that  in  his  heart,  he  followed 
the  admirable  advice  of  the  great  poet: 
''Pluck  today's  flower,  and  give  no  thought  to  the  mor- 
row's." 

He  was  passing  through  all  of  the  most  common  and 
most  vulgar  phases  of  falling  in  love;  he  had  moments 
of  sadness,  of  anger,  of  wounded  and  maltreated  self- 
esteem. 

He  tried  to  analyze  his  spiritual  condition  coldly,  and 
he  considered  it  best  and  most  expedient  to  make  an 
effort  not  to  appear  at  Rafaela  's  house  for  a  long  time. 

''I  must  be  active,"  he  said  to  himself.  At  other 
times  his  reason  appealed  to  him :  '  *  Why  not  go  to  see 
her  as  I  used  to?  What  is  it  that  I  want?  Do  I  want 
her  to  cease  having  a  sweetheart  she  has  already  had? 
That  would  be  stupid.  We  must  accept  things  that 
have  already  been. ' ' 

At  this,  his  wounded  pride  responded  with  fits  of 
anger,  obscuring  his  intelligence;  and  the  pride  gen- 
erally came  out  victorious. 

Quentin  did  not  appear  at  Rafaela 's  house  for  some 
time.  Alone,  with  nothing  to  occupy  him,  friendless; 
he  was  desperately  bored.     How  the  Andalusian  spring 

156 
/ 


SPRING  157 


oppressed  him !  He  wandered  about  from  place  to  place, 
without  plans,  without  an  object,  without  a  destination. 

The  sun  inundated  the  silent,  deserted  streets;  the 
sky,  a  pure,  opaque  blue,  seemed  something  tangible — 
a  huge  turquoise,  or  sapphire  in  which  roofs  and  towers 
and  terraces  were  embedded. 

Everything  gave  the  impression  of  profound  lethargy. 
.  .  .  The  houses :  blue,  yellow,  pale  rose,  cream-coloured, 
all  hermetically  sealed,  seemed  deserted;  the  irrigated 
vestibules  flowed  with  water ;  one  smelt  vaguely  the  odour 
of  flowers,  and  a  penetrating  perfume  of  orange  blossoms 
arose  from  the  patios  and  gardens. 

The  plazas,  like  white  whirlpools  of  sunlight,  were 
blinding  with  the  reverberation  of  light  against  the  walls. 
In  the  alleys,  tenebrous,  narrow,  shadowy,  one  felt  a 
damp,  cave-like  cold.  .  .  .  Everywhere  silence  and  soli- 
tude reigned;  in  some  lonely  spot,  a  donkey,  tied  to  a 
grating,  remained  motionless ;  a  hungry  dog  scratched  in 
a  heap  of  refuse ;  or  a  frightened  cat  ran  with  tail  erect 
until  it  disappeared  in  its  hiding-place. 

In  the  distance,  the  crowing  of  a  cock  rang  out  like  a 
bugle  call  in  the  silent  air ;  one  heard  the  melancholy  cry 
of  the  vendors  of  medicinal  herbs;  and  through  the  de- 
serted plazoletas,  through  the  narrow  and  tortuous  alleys, 
there  rose  the  song  of  love  and  death  that  a  grancero  was 
singing  as  he  rode  along  on  his  donkey. 

In  La  Ribera,  some  vagabonds  and  gipsies  were  sun- 
ning themselves,  while  others  played  quoits;  little  chil- 
dren with  brown  skins  ran  about  bare-legged,  covered 
only  by  a  scanty  shirt;  sunburned  old  women  came  to 
the  windows  and  gratings ;  and  along  the  white,  the  very 
white  highway,  which  resembled  a  great  chalk  furrow, 
there  passed  gallant  horsemen,  raising  clouds  of  dust. 


158  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

The  river  wound  peacefully  along — blue  at  times,  at 
times  golden;  wagons  and  herds  passed  slowly  over  the 
bridges — so  slowly  that  from  a  distance  they  seemed 
motionless. 

An  oppressive  calm,  a  tiresome  somnolence  weighed 
down  upon  the  city;  and  in  the  midst  of  this  calm,  of 
this  death-like  silence,  there  sounded  a  bell  here,  another 
there — all  extremely  languid  and  sad.  .  .  . 

At  nightfall,  the  magic  of  the  twilight  touched  the  city 
and  the  distant  landscape  with  gold-  and  rose-coloured 
lights;  splendid  colours  of  extraordinary  magnificence. 
The  clouds  became  rosy,  scarlet.  .  .  .  The  country  was 
tinged  with  gold,  and  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  set  fire  to 
the  rocks  and  peaks  of  the  mountain-tops. 

In  the  streets,  which  were  bathed  with  light,  a  narrow 
strip  of  shadow  appeared  upon  the  walks,  which  grew 
and  widened  until  it  covered  the  whole  pavement.  Then 
it  slowly  climbed  the  walls,  reached  the  grated  windows 
and  the  balconies,  scaled  the  twisted  eaves.  .  .  .  The 
sunlight  completely  disappeared  from  the  street,  and 
there  only  remained  the  last  vestiges  of  its  brilliancy  upon 
the  towers,  the  high  look-outs,  and  the  flaming  win- 
dows. .  .  . 

The  air  grew  diaphanous,  acquired  more  transparency ; 
the  horizon  more  depth ;  and  the  sides  of  the  white  walls 
of  garrets  and  comers,  as  they  reflected  the  scarlet  or 
rosy  sky,  resembled  blocks  of  snow  animated  by  the  pale 
rays  of  a  boreal  sun.  .  .  . 

Presently  the  lamps  were  lighted ;  their  little  red  flames 
flickering  in  the  shadows ;  and  squares  of  lighted  windows 
punctured  the  fagades  of  the  houses. 

At  this  hour  on  work  days,  women  visited  the  stores; 
wealthy  families  returned  in  their  coaches  from  their 


SPRING  159 


orchards ;  youths  rode  back  and  forth  on  horseback ;  and 
the  nocturnal  life  of  Cordova  poured  through  the  central 
streets,  which  were  lighted  by  street  lamps  and  shop 
windows. 

Quentin  wandered  from  place  to  place,  ruminating  on 
his  sadness;  walked  indiiferently  along  streets  and 
plazas ;  watched  the  young  ladies  coming  and  going  with 
their  mammas,  and  followed  by  their  beaux.  When  his 
irritation  disappeared,  he  felt  discouraged.  The  mel- 
ancholy calmness  of  the  city,  the  dreamy  atmosphere, 
produced  within  him  a  feeling  of  great  lassitude  and 
laziness. 

At  times  he  firmly  believed  that  Rafaela  would  trouble 
him  no  more;  that  his  feeling  of  love  had  been  a  super- 
ficial fantasy. 

In  the  morning  Quentin  often  went  to  the  Patio  de  los 
Naranjos  where  El  Pende 's  father  used  to  spend  his 
time  with  a  coterie  of  old  men,  beggars,  and  tramps, 
which  all  Cordova  ironically  called  La  Potra,  or  the  herd 
of  young  mares. 

El  Pende  senior,  or  Matapalos,  passed  his  time  there 
chatting  with  his  friends.  He  was  an  original  and 
knowing  fellow  who  spoke  in  apothegms  and  maxims. 
He  dominated  the  meetings  as  few  others  could.  No  one 
could,  like  him,  so  slyly  introduce  a  number  of  subjects 
in  a  conversational  hiatus,  or  in  the  act  of  rolling  a 
cigarette.  Of  course,  for  him,  this  last  was  by  no  means 
a  simple  affair;  but  rather  an  operation  that  demanded 
time  and  science.  First,  Matapalos  took  out  a  little  knife 
and  began  to  scrape  a  plug  of  tobacco;  after  the  scrap- 
ing came  the  rubbing  of  it  between  his  hands;  then  he 
tore  a  leaf  of  cigarette  paper  from  its  little  book,  held 


160         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

it  for  a  moment  sticking  to  his  under  lip,  and  then  began 
to  roll  the  cigarette  first  on  one  end,  and  then  on  the 
other,  until  the  manGeuvre  was  happily  consummated. 
This  operation  over,  Matapalos  removed  his  calañés, 
placed  it  between  his  legs,  and  from  somewhere  within 
the  hat  drew  forth  a  little  leather  purse,  from  which  he 
extracted  flint  and  steel  and  tinder. 

After  this,  he  slowly  covered  himself  and  from  time 
to  time,  in  the  midst  of  the  conversation,  struck  the  steel 
with  the  flint  until  he  happened-to  light  the  tinder,  and 
with  the  tinder,  his  cigarette. 

The  old  man  lived  in  a  hut  in  the  Matadero  district; 
he  knew  everything  that  had  occurred  in  Cordova  for 
many  years,  and  boasted  of  it.  For  Matapalos,  there 
were  no  toreadors  like  those  of  his  own  time. 

'*I'm  not  taking  any  merit  away  from  Lagartijo  or 
Manuel  Fuentes,"  he  said,  ''but  you  don't  see  any  more 
toreadors  like  El  Panchón,  or  Rafael  Be  jarano,  or  Pepete, 
or  El  Cámara.  You  ought  to  have  seen  Be  jarano !  He 
was  such  a  great  rival  of  no  less  a  person  than  Costillares, 
that  in  my  time  they  used  to  sing : 

"  Arrogcmte  Coatillares, 
anda,  vete  al  Almadén 
para  ver  bien  matar  toros 
al  famoso  Cordobés." 

(Proud  Costillares,  come,  and  go  to  the  Almadén  to  see  the  fa- 
mous Cordovese  kill  bulls  right.) 

In  this  subject  Matapalos  had  a  formidable  adver- 
sary; another  old  man  whom  they  called  Doctor  Proso- 
popeya, who,  as  a  native  of  Seville,  never  admitted  that  a 
Cordovese  toreador  could  come  up  to  one  from  Se- 
ville. 


SPRING  161 


Quentin  found  Matapalos  very  funny  and  very  amus- 
ing, and  he  often  went  to  listen  to  him. 

While  the  old  man  related  ancient  history  in  his  quiet, 
peaceful  voice,  Quentin  contemplated  the  Patio  de  los 
Naranjos,  sometimes  listening  to  what  was  said,  some- 
times not. 

The  orange  trees  were  in  full  blossom,  and  their  pene- 
trating perfume  produced  a  certain  giddiness ;  from  time 
to  time  one  could  hear  distant  bells  which  the  cathedral 
bell  seemed  to  answer,  clanging  loudly.  .  .  .  Then  si- 
lence again  reigned;  the  birds  chirped  in  the  trees;  the 
water  murmured  in  the  fountain;  the  butterflies  bathed 
in  the  pure  air;  and  the  lizards  and  salamanders  glided 
along  the  walls. 

Among  the  shadows  of  the  orange  trees  shone  vivid 
splashes  of  sunlight;  doves  tumbled  from  the  cathedral 
roof  and  flew  softly  through  the  blue  and  luminous  air, 
making  a  slight  sound  of  ripping  gauze ;  sometimes  they 
made  a  metallic  whirr  as  they  rapidly  beat  their  wings. 

The  majority  of  the  Potra  was  made  up  of  beggars  and 
tramps.  These  beggars  were  neither  emaciated,  squalid, 
nor  ill;  but  strong,  vigorous  men,  hirsute,  with  long, 
matted  locks,  sunburned,  covered  with  rags.  .  .  .  Some 
wore  threadbare  calañés  hats;  others,  broad-brimmed 
sombreros  worn  over  grass  handkerchiefs;  some,  a  very 
few,  wore  loose,  yellowish  coats  with  long  sleeves ;  a  good 
many  wrapped  themselves  up  in  grey  cloaks  of  heavy 
cloth  and  many  folds.  Nearly  all  of  them  had  private 
homes  where  they  were  given  leavings  and  cigarette 
butts ;  those  who  .did  not,  went  to  the  barracks,  or  to  a 
convent;  no  one  lacked  the  hodge-podge  necessary  for 
wandering  on,  though  poorly,  through  the  bitter  adver- 
sities of  life. 


162  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

From  time  to  time  the  Potra  came  into  a  little  money ; 
and  then  ten  or  twelve  of  them  got  up  a  pool  to  play  the 
lottery. 

In  that  troop  there  was  a  beggar  with  a  black  beard, 
younger  than  the  rest,  bent  almost  double  at  the  waist, 
who  went  about  leaning  on  a  short  crutch.  They  called 
this  man  El  Engurruñao.  He  had  one  shrunken  leg 
wrapped  in  rags,  although  really  he  had  no  illness  at  all. 
He  howled  in  a  doleful  voice  after  every  decently- 
dressed  passer-by,  and  he  took  in  plenty  of  money. 

Through  the  conversations  of  these  tramps  and  beg- 
gars, Quentin  came  to  know  Cordova  life,  and  that  of  the 
principal  families  of  the  town.  Through  them  he  learned 
that  the  majority  of  the  great  families  were  on  their  way 
to  poverty. 

One  example  of  an  economic  catastrophe  was  that  of  a 
gentleman  who  walked  through  the  arcade  of  the  Mosque 
eyery  morning.  This  gentleman  was  dressed  like  a 
dandy  of  other  days:  well-fitting  coat,  flowing  black 
cravat,  tall  silk  hat  with  a  flat  brim,  and,  on  some  cold 
days,  a  blue  cape.  The  poor  man  was  emaciated,  had 
long,  grey,  bushy  hair,  and  wore  yellow  gloves. 

He  was  a  ruined  aristocrat.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  that 
living  ruin  walking  up  and  down  under  the  porticos,  with 
his  hands  behind  his  back,  talking  to  himself  with  a  ges- 
ture of  resignation  and  sadness.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XV 

WHERE   HIS   BEAUTIFUL  EXPECTATIONS   WENT  ! 

ONE  morning  Quentin  met  Juan,  the  gardener. 
''You  don't  come  to  the  house  any  more, 
Señorito." 

"  I  've  had  lots  to  do  these  days. ' ' 

''Have  you  heard  the  important  news?" 

"What  is  it?" 

' '  The  Señorita  is  going  to  be  married. ' ' 

"Rafaela?" 

"Yes." 

"To  whom?" 

"To  Juan  de  Dios." 

Quentin  felt  as  if  all  his  nerves  had  let  go  at  once. 

"The  Marquis  is  getting  worse  every  day,"  the  gar- 
dener continued,  "so  he  thought  the  Señorita  ought  to 
get  married  as  soon  as  possible." 

"And  she.  .  .  .  What  does  she  say?" 

"Nothing,  at  present." 

' '  But  will  she  oppose  it  ? " 

"How  do  I  know?" 

"Are  the  family  affairs  in  such  bad  shape  that  the 
Marquis  was  forced  to  take  this  course  ?  " 

"They  are  very  bad.  The  grandfather  hasn't  much 
longer  to  live ;  the  Señorita  's  father  is  a  profligate ;  and 
El  Polio  Real  doesn't  care  to  do  anything  at  all.  To 
whom  will  they  leave  the  girls?     Their  stepmother,  La 

163 


164  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Aceitunera,  is  no  good.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  a 
Señora  Patrocinio  who  has  a  house  in  Los  Tejares? 
Well,  she  goes  there  every  day.    Why,  it's  a  shame." 

''And  this  Juan  de  Dios  ...  is  he  rich?"  asked  Quen- 
tin. 

''Very;  but  he  is  very  coarse.  When  he  was  a  little 
boy  he  used  to  say :  '  I  want  to  be  a  horse, '  and  he  used 
to  go  out  to  the  stable,  pick  up  some  filth  in  his  hands, 
and  say  to  the  people,  '  Look,  look  what  I  did. '  ' ' 

"He  is  coarse,  then — eh?" 

"Yes;  but  he's  got  noble  blood  in  him." 

Quentin  left  Juan  and  went  home  perplexed.  In- 
dubitably, he  was  no  Boeotian,  but  a  vulgar  sentimental- 
ist, a  poor  cadet,  an  unhappy  wretch,  without  strength 
enough  to  set  aside,  as  useless  and  prejudicial,  those 
gloomy  ideas  and  sentiments:  love,  self-denial,  and  the 
rest. 

And  he  had  thought  himself  an  Epicurean!  One  of 
the  few  men  capable  of  following  the  advice  of  Horace : 
"Pluck  today's  flower,  and  give  no  thought  to  the  mor- 
row's!" He!  In  love  with  a  young  lady  of  the  aris- 
tocracy ;  not  for  her  money,  nor  even  for  her  palace ;  but 
for  her  own  sake !  He  was  on  a  level  with  any  romantic 
carpenter  of  a  provincial  capital.  He  was  unworthy  of 
having  been  in  Eton,  near  Windsor,  for  eight  years;  or 
of  having  walked  through  Piccadilly ;  or  of  having  read 
Horace. 

In  the  miserable  state  in  which  Quentin  found  himself, 
only  nonsensical  ideas  occurred  to  him.  The  first  was  to 
go  to  Rafaela  and  demand  an  explanation;  the  second 
was  to  write  her  a  letter;  and  he  was  as  pleased  with 
this  idiotic  plan  as  if  it  had  been  really  brilliant.  He 
made  several  rough  drafts  in  succession,  and  was  satis- 


WHERE  HIS  EXPECTATIONS  WENT!      165 

fied  with  none  of  them.  Sometimes  his  words  were  high- 
sounding  and  emphatic;  again,  he  unwittingly  gave  a 
clumsy  and  vulgar  tone  to  his  letter :  one  could  read  be- 
tween the  lines  a  common  and  uncouth  irony,  as  often 
as  extraordinary  pride,  or  abject  humility. 

At  last,  seeing  that  he  could  not  find  a  form  clear 
enough  to  express  his  thoughts,  he  decided  to  write  a 
laconic  letter,  asking  Rafaela  to  grant  him  an  interview. 

He  gave  Juan  the  letter  to  give  to  his  young  mistress. 
He  was  waiting  at  the  door  for  some  one  to  answer  his 
ring,  when  Remedios  appeared. 

*'See  here,"  said  the  child. 

''What's  the  matter?" 

''Don't  you  know?  Rafaela  is  going  to  marry  Juan 
deDios." 

"Does  she  love  him?" 

"No;  I  don't  think  she  does." 

' '  Then  why  does  she  marry  him  ? " 

"Because  Juan  de  Dios  is  very  rich,  and  we  have  no 
money. ' ' 

"But  will  she  want  to  do  it?" 

"She  hasn't  said  anything  about  it.  Juan  de  Dios 
spoke  to  grandfather,  and  grandfather  spoke  to  Rafaela. 
Are  you  going  to  see  sister  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  this  very  minute." 

"She's  in  the  sewing-room." 

They  went  to  the  door. 

"Tell  her  not  to  marry  Juan  de  Dios. ' ' 

"Don't  you  like  him?" 

"No.     I  hate  him.     He's  vulgar." 

Quentin  went  in,  glided  along  the  gallery,  and  knocked 
upon  the  door  of  the  sewing-room. 

' '  Come  in ! "  said  some  one. 


166         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Rafaela  and  the  old  woman  servant  were  sewing.  As 
Quentin  appeared  a  slight  flush  spread  over  the  girl's 
cheeks. 

"What  a  long  time  it  is  since  you  have  been  here!" 
said  Rafaela.     ''Won't  you  sit  down?" 

Quentin  gave  her  to  understand  with  a  gesture  that 
he  preferred  to  remain  standing. 

'  *  Have  you  been  so  very  busy  ? ' '  asked  the  girl. 

*'No;  I've  had  nothing  to  do,"  answered  Quentin 
gruffly.     ' '  I  've  spent  my  time  being  furious  these  days. ' ' 

* '  Furious !  At  what  ? ' '  said  she  with  a  certain  smiling 
coquetry. 

''At  you." 

"At  me?" 

"Yes.  Will  you  let  me  speak  to  you  alone  a 
minute  ? ' ' 

' '  You  may  speak  here,  before  my  nurse.  She  will  de- 
fend me  in  case  you  accuse  me  of  anything." 

"Accuse  you?     No,  not  that." 

' '  WeU,  then,  why  were  you  so  furious  ? ' ' 

"I  was  furious,  first  because  they  told  me  that  you 
once  had  a  sweetheart  whom  you  loved ;  and  second,  be- 
cause they  say  that  you  are  going  to  get  married. ' ' 

Rafaela,  who  perhaps  did  not  expect  such  a  brusque 
way  of  putting  the  matter,  dropped  her  sewing  and 
rose  to  her  feet. 

"You,  too,  are  a  child,"  she  murmured  at  length. 
"What  can  one  do  with  what  is  gone  by?  I  had  a  sweet- 
heart, it  is  true,  for  six  years — and  I  was  in  love  with 
him." 

' '  Yes ;  I  know  it, ' '  said  Quentin  furiously. 

"If  he  acted  badly,"  Rafaela  continued,  as  if  talking 
to  herself,  "so  much  the  worse  for  him.    There  is  no 


WHERE  HIS  EXPECTATIONS  WENT!      167 

recollection  of  my  childhood  that  is  not  connected  with 
him.  In  his  company  I  went  to  the  theatre  for  the  first 
time,  and  to  my  first  dance.  What  little  happiness  I 
have  had  in  my  life,  came  to  me  during  the  time  I  knew 
him.  My  mother  was  living  then;  my  family  was  con- 
sidered wealthy.  .  .  .  Yet,  if  that  man  were  free,  and 
wished  to  marry  me  now,  I  would  not  marry  him;  not 
from  spite,  no — but  because  to  me  he  is  a  different  man. 
...  I  say  this  to  you  because  I  feel  I  know  you,  and 
because  you  are  like  my  sister  Remedios :  you  demand  an 
exclusive  affection." 

''And  don't  you?"  demanded  Quentin  brusquely. 

*  *  I  do  too ;  perhaps  not  as  much  as  you ;  but  neither  do 
I  believe  that  I  could  share  my  affection  with  another.  I 
must  not  deceive  you  in  this.  You  would  be  capable  of 
being  jealous  of  the  past." 

''Probably,"  said  Quentin. 

"I  know  it.  I  don't  believe  that  I  have  flirted  with 
you;  have  I?" 

Rafaela  spoke  at  some  length.  She  had  that  gracious- 
ness  of  those  persons  whose  emotions  are  not  easily 
stirred.  Her  heart  needed  time  to  feel  affection ;  an  im- 
pulse of  the  moment  could  not  make  her  believe  herself 
in  love. 

She  was  a  woman  destined  for  the  hearth;  to  be  seen 
going  to  and  fro,  arranging  everything,  directing  every- 
thing; to  be  heard  playing  the  piano  in  the  afternoons. 
In  a  burst  of  frankness,  Rafaela  said: 

' '  Had  I  listened  to  your  hints,  I  should  have  made  you 
unhappy  without  wishing  tcf,  and  you  would  have  made 
me  miserable." 

' '  Then  how  is  it  that  you  are  going  to  marry  Juan  de 
Dios?"  asked  Quentin  brutally. 


168         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Rafaela  was  confused. 

** That's  different,"  she  stammered;  **in  the  first  place, 
I  have  not  decided  yet;  and  besides,  I  have  made  my 
conditions.  Then  again,  there  is  this  great  difference: 
Juan  de  Dios  is  not  jealous  of  my  past  love  affair  .  .  . 
he  wants  my  title.  [In  this  moment,  Rafaela  is  sure  that 
she  is  calumniating  her  betrothed  in  order  to  get  out  of 
her  difficulty.]  Moreover,  my  whole  family  is  interested 
in  my  marrying  him.  If  I  do  so,  my  grandfather,  poor 
dear,  will  be  easy  in  his  mind ;  Remedios  will  be  sure  of 
being  able  to  live  according  to  her  station, — and  so  shall 
I." 

"You  are  very  discreet;  too  discreet — and  calculat- 
ing," said  Quentin  bitterly. 

*'No;  not  too  much  so.  What  would  happen  to  us 
girls  otherwise  ? ' ' 

*'What  about  me?" 

*'You?" 

* '  Yes,  me ;  I  would  work  for  you  if  you  loved  me. ' ' 

'*That  could  never  be." 

«'Why?" 

"For  many  reasons.  First  of  all,  because  I  am  older 
than  you  ..." 

''Bah!" 

' '  Let  me  speak.  First,  because  I  am  older  than  you ; 
second,  because  you  would  be  jealous  of  me  and  would 
continually  mortify  me;  and  lastly,  most  important  of 
all,  because  you  and  I  are  both  poor. ' ' 

*  *  I  shall  make  money, ' '  said  Quentin. 

**How?  With  what?  Why  aren't  you  making  it 
now?" 

**Now?"  questioned  Quentin  after  a  pause.  **Now  I 
have  no  ideal ;  it 's  all  the  same  to  me  whether  I  'm  rich 


WHERE  HIS  EXPECTATIONS  WENT!      169 

or  poor.  But  if  you  believed  in  me,  you'd  find  that 
I  could  snatch  money  from  the  very  bowels  of  the 
earth." 

''Possibly,  yes,"  said  Rafaela  calmly;  ''because  you 
are  clever.  But  those  are  my  reasons.  Some  day,  when 
you  recall  our  conversation,  you  will  say:  'she  was 
right'  " 

"You  are  very  discreet,"  said  Quentin  as  he  turned 
toward  the  door ;  ' '  too  discreet ;  and  you  have  discreetly 
torn  asunder  all  my  illusions,  and  have  left  my  soul  in 
shreds. ' ' 

' '  Do  you  hate  me  now  ? ' '  she  said  sadly. 

"Hate  you,  no!"  exclaimed  Quentin  with  emotion, 
effusively  pressing  the  hand  Rafaela  held  out  to  him. 
' '  You  are  an  admirable  woman  in  every  respect ! ' ' 

And  trembling  violently,  he  left  the  room. 

As  he  went  down  the  stairs  Remedios  rushed  up  to 
him. 

"What  did  she  say  to  you?"  she  asked. 

"  It 's  no  use ;  she 's  going  to  marry  him. '  * 

"Did  she  tell  you  that  herself?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you.    "What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"What  can  I  do?" 

"I'd  kill  Juan  de  Dios,"  murmured  the  girl  reso- 
lutely. 

' '  If  she  wished  it,  I  would,  too, ' '  replied  Quentin,  and 
he  stepped  into  the  street. 

He  walked  along  in  a  daze;  he  repeated  Rafaela 's 
words  to  himself,  and  discovered  better  arguments  that 
he  might  have  put  forward  in  the  interview,  but  which 
did  not  occur  to  him  at  the  moment.  Sometimes  he 
thought,  more  rationally:     "At  least  I  came  out  of  it 


170         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

well ; ' '  but  this  consolation  was  too  metaphysical  to  sat- 
isfy him. 

He  spent  a  sleepless  night  at  his  window  watching  the 
stars  and  thinking.  He  analyzed  and  studied  his  moral 
problem,  proposing  solutions,  only  to  reject  them. 

At  dawn  he  went  to  bed.  He  believed  that  he  had  hit 
upon  a  definite  solution — the  norm  of  his  existence. 
Condensed  into  a  single  phrase,  it  was  this : 

* '  I  must  become  a  man  of  action. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  MAN  OF  ACTION   BEGINS  TO   MAKE  HIMSELF   KNOWN 

OUENTIN  got  up  late,  ate  his  breakfast  and  wrote 
several  letters  to  his  friends  in  England.  In 
the  evening  he  looked  through  the  amusement 
section  of  the  paper  and  saw  that  there  was  to  be  an 
entertainment  in  the  Café  del  Recreo. 

He  asked  Palomares  where  this  café  was,  and  was  told 
that  it  was  on  the  Calle  del  Arco  Real,  a  street  that  ran 
into  Las  Tendillas. 

The  constant  irritation  in  Quentin's  mind  troubled 
him  so,  that  he  calmly  decided  to  get  drunk. 

' '  Tell  me, ' '  he  said  to  the  waiter  after  seating  himself 
at  a  table  in  the  café,  '^hat  refreshments  have  you?" 

''We  have  currants,  lemons,  blackberries,  and  French 
ice-cream. ' ' 

* '  Fine !     Bring  me  a  bottle  of  cognac. ' ' 

The  waiter  brought  his  order,  filled  his  glass,  and  was 
about  to  remove  the  bottle. 

' '  No,  no ;  leave  it  here. ' ' 

''Aren't  you  going  to  see  the  show?"  asked  the  waiter 
with  obsequious  familiarity.  "They  are  giving  La  Isla 
de  San  Balandrán:  it's  very  amusing." 

"I'll  see." 

After  Quentinhad  emptied  several  glasses,  he  began 
to  feel  heartened,  and  ready  for  any  folly.  At  a  near-by 
table  several  men  were  talking  about  an  actress  who  took 

171 


172         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

the  principal  part  in  a  musical  comedy  that  had  just 
been  put  on.  One  with  a  very  loud  voice  was  dragging 
the  actress'  name  through  the  mire. 

This  man  was  extremely  fat ;  a  kind  of  a  sperm  whale, 
with  the  bulging  features  of  a  dropsical  patient,  a  shiny 
skin,  and  the  voice  of  a  eunuch.  He  had  a  microscopic 
nose  that  was  lost  between  his  two  chubby  cheeks,  which 
were  a  pale  yellow ;  his  hatchet-shaped  whiskers  were  so 
black  that  they  seemed  painted  with  ink ;  his  stiff,  bluish 
hair  grew  low  on  his  forehead,  with  a  peak  above  the 
eyebrows.  He  wore  diamonds  upon  his  bosom,  rings 
upon  his  pudgy  fingers,  and,  to  cap  his  offensiveness,  he 
was  smoking  a  kilometric  cigar  with  a  huge  band. 

The  bearing,  the  voice,  the  diamonds,  the  cigar,  the 
waddling,  and  the  laughter  of  that  man  set  Quentin's 
blood  afire  to  such  an  extent,  that  rising  and  striking  the 
table  where  the  whale  was  talking  to  his  friends,  he 
shouted : 

''Everything  you  say  is  a  lie!'* 

''Are  you  the  woman's  brother  or  husband?"  in- 
quired the  obese  gentleman,  staring  into  space  and  strok- 
ing his  black  sideburns  with  his  much  bediamonded  hand. 

"I  am  nothing  of  hers,"  replied  Quentin;  "I  don't 
know  her,  and  I  don't  want  to  know  her;  but  I  do  know 
that  everything  you  say  is  a  lie." 

' '  Pay  no  attention  to  him, ' '  said  one  of  the  fat  man 's 
companions;  "he's  drunk." 

"Well,  he'd  better  look  out,  or  I'll  strike  him  with  my 
stick." 

' '  You  '11  strike  me  with  your  stick ! ' '  exclaimed  Quen- 
tin. "Ha  ...  ha  ...  ha!  ...  But  have  you  ever 
looked  into  a  mirror?  .  .  .  You  really  are  most  repul- 
sive, my  friend!" 


THE  MAN  OF  ACTION  173 

The  fat  man,  before  such  an  insult  to  his  appearance, 
rose  and  endeavoured  to  reach  Quentin,  but  his  friends 
restrained  him.  Quentin  quickly  removed  his  coat  and 
rolled  up  his  sleeves,  ready  to  box. 

*'Evohé!  Evohé!"  he  thundered.  "Come  who  will! 
One  by  one,  two  by  two,  every  one  against  me ! " 

A  thin,  blond  man  with  blue  eyes  and  a  golden  beard, 
stepped  up  to  him;  not  as  though  to  fight,  but  with  a 
smile. 

* '  What  do  you  want  1 ' '  Quentin  asked  him  rudely. 

* '  Oh !  Don 't  you  remember  Paul  Springer,  the  son  of 
the  Swiss  watch-maker?" 

'^s  that  you,  Paul?" 

''Yes." 

''Well,  I'm  sorry." 

"Why?" 

' '  Because  I  should  have  liked  it  had  it  been  the  fat  man 
or  one  of  his  friends,  so  I  could  have  cut  him  open  with 
my  fist." 

"I  see  that  you  are  just  as  crazy  as  ever." 

"I,  crazy?  I'm  one  of  the  few  people  on  this  planet 
in  their  right  senses!  Moreover,  I  have  decided  to  be- 
come a  man  of  action.     Believe  me!" 

' '  I  can 't  believe  anything  of  you  now,  my  lad.     What 
you  ought  to  do  is  to  put  on  your  coat  and  go  to  bed. 
Come,  I'll  go  with  you." 
^^^-Quentin  assented,  and  went  home  with  his  friend. 
IHi^'We'll  see  each  other  again,  won't  we?"  said  the 
Swiss. 

"Yes." 

"Then,  until  another  day." 

They  took  leave  of  each  other.  Quentin  remained  in 
his  doorway. 


174  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

**I*m  not  going  in,"  he  said  to  himself.  *'Am  I  not 
a  man  of  action?  Well,  adelante!  Where  can  I  go? 
I  '11  go  and  see  Señora  Patrocinio.  1 11  take  a  few  turns 
about  here  until  my  head  is  a  little  clearer.  ..." 

He  knocked  at  the  house  in  Los  Tejares,  and  the 
door  was  immediately  opened  to  him. 

* '  Ah !  Is  it  you  ? ' '  said  the  old  woman,  as  she  lifted 
the  candle  to  see  who  it  was. 

'*Yes,  it  is  I." 

''Come  in." 

The  old  woman  lit  the  lamp  in  the  same  room  on  the 
lower  floor  that  Don  Gil  Sabadia  and  Quentin  had  occu- 
pied. 

* '  What 's  the  matter  ? ' '  asked  Señora  Patrocinio  ?  '  *  Do 
you  need  money  ? ' ' 

' '  No.     Do  you,  too,  wish  to  offend  me  ? " 

**No;  I  just  wanted  to  give  you  some." 

''Thanks  very  much!  You  are  the  only  person  who 
takes  any  interest  in  me — why,  I  don't  know.  ...  I 
have  come  to  see  you  tonight  because  I  am  unhappy. ' ' 

"I  know.  .  .  .  Rafaela  is  going  to  get  married." 

"And  how  do  you  know  that  that  is  the  reason  for 
my  unhappiness  ? ' ' 

"Nothing  is  secret  from  me.  You  liked  her,  but  you 
will  get  over  it  soon.     She  was  fond  of  you,  too." 

"Do  you  think  .  .  .   ?" 

"Yes;  but  the  poor  girl  had  a  bad  beginning  in 
life,  and  does  well  not  to  get  mixed  up  in  adventures; 
for  the  majority  of  men  aren't  even  worth  the  trouble 
of  looking  in  the  face.  Still,  what  her  sweetheart  did 
was  disgraceful.  Rafaela  was  brought  up  weakly, — too 
carefully  guarded ;  then  she  began  to  grow  quite  happy, 
what  with  taking  care  of  her  mother  and  her  betrothal. 


THE  MAN  OF  ACTION  175 

Then  her  mother  died;  her  father  remarried  immedi- 
ately ;  in  a  few  months  it  began  to  be  rumoured  that  her 
family  was  on  the  verge  of  ruin,  and  her  sweetheart 
skipped  out.  Think  of  it!  The  poor  abandoned  girl 
began  to  turn  yellow,  and  thought  she  was  going  to  die. 
I  believe  that  she  owes  her  cure  to  the  trouble  her 
younger  sister  gave  her." 

*'Yes;  I  understand  that  she  has  no  faith  in  men. 
Probably  I  ought  not  to  have  paid  any  attention  to  the 
fact,"  Quentin  added  ingenuously.  ''But  won't  this 
Juan  de  Dios  make  her  suffer?" 

''No.  He's  coarse,  but  good  at  heart.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  ?  " 

"I!  I  don't  know.  We  live  in  such  a  contemptible 
epoch.  If  I  had  been  born  in  Napoleon's  time!  God! 
I'd  either  be  dead  by  now  or  else  on  the  road  to  a  gen- 
eralship. ' ' 

"Would  you  have  enlisted  with  Napoleon?" 

"Rather!" 

"And  would  you  have  fought  against  your  own  coun- 
try?" 

"Against  the  whole  world." 

' '  But  not  against  Spain. ' ' 

"Especially  against  Spain.  It  would  be  pretty  nice  to 
enter  these  towns  defended  by  their  walls  and  their 
conventionalitifis  against  everything  that  is  noble  and 
: human,  and  raze  them  to  the  ground.  To  shoot  all  these 
flat-nosed,  pious  fakers  and  poor  quality  hidalgos ;  to  set 
fire  to  all  of  the  churches,  and  to  violate  all  the 
nuns.  ..." 

"You've  been  drinking,  Quentin." 

"  I  ?  I  'm  as  calm  as  a  bean  plant,  which  is  the  calmest 
vegetable  there  is,  according  to  the  botanists. ' ' 


176  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

''You  must  not  talk  like  that  of  your  native  land  in 
front  of  me/' 

''Are  you  a  patriot?" 

' '  With  all  my  heart.     Aren  't  you  ? " 

"I  am  a  citizen  of  the  world." 

' '  It  seems  to  me  that  you  Ve  been  drinking,  Quentin. ' ' 

"No:  believe  me." 

"I  say  this  to  you,"  added  the  old  woman  after  a 
long  pause,  "because  for  me,  this  is  a  solemn  moment. 
I  have  told  no  one  the  story  of  my  life  until  this  mo- 
ment. ' ' 

' '  The  devil !  What  is  she  going  to  tell  me  ? "  mumbled 
Quentin. 

"Are  you  vengeful?"  asked  the  old  woman. 

"I?" 

Quentin  was  not  sure  whether  he  was  vengeful  or  not, 
but  the  old  woman  took  his  exclamation  for  one  of 
assent. 

"Then  you  shall  avenge  me,  Quentin,  and  your  fam- 
ily. We  are  of  the  same  blood.  Your  grandfather,  the 
Marquis  of  Tavera,  and  I  are  brother  and  sister. ' ' 

"Really?" 

"Yes.  He  doesn't  know  that  he  has  a  sister  living. 
He  thinks  I  died  a  long  time  ago. ' ' 

Quentin  scrutinized  the  old  woman  closely  and  dis- 
covered certain  resemblances  to  the  old  Marquis. 

She  pressed  Quentin 's  hand,  and  then  commenced  her 
story  as  follows: 

' '  In  villages,  there  are  certain  families  in  which  hatred 
is  perpetuated  through  century  after  century.  In  cities, 
after  one  or  two  generations,  hatred  and  rivalry  are  grad- 
ually wiped  out  until  they  disappear  altogether.  Not  so 
in  the  villages :  people  unconcerned  in  the  quarrel  carry 


THE  MAN  OF  ACTION  177 

the  story  of  it  from  father  to  son,  present  the  chapter  of 
insults  to  different  individuals,  and  go  on  feeding 
the  flame  of  rancour  when  it  tends  to  extinguish  it- 
self. 

''I  was  born  in  a  large,  highland  village,  of  such  an 
illustrious  family  as  that  of  Tavera.  My  mother  died 
young,  my  older  brother  went  to  England,  the  other  to 
Madrid  to  take  up  a  diplomatic  career,  while  I  remained 
in  the  village  with  my  father  and  two  maiden  aunts. 

*'My  mother,  whom  I  scarcely  knew,  was  very  good, 
but  rather  simple;  so  much  so  that  they  say  that  when 
the  fishes  in  our  pool  did  not  bite,  she  called  in  a  pro- 
fessional fisherman  and  gave  him  a  good  day's  wages  to 
teach  them  to  do  so. 

''My  family  came  from  an  important  village  in  the 
province  of  Toledo,  near  La  Puebla,  where  long  ago  there 
used  to  stand  a  tower  and  a  castle  and  various  strong- 
holds, which  are  now  nothing  but  ruins. 

''According  to  my  father,  a  harsh  man,  proud  of  his 
titles  and  lineage,  we  came  from  the  oldest  nobility, 
from  the  conquerors  of  Cordova,  and  were  related  to  the 
whole  Andalusian  aristocracy :  the  Baenas,  Arjonas,  Cor- 
dovas, Vélaseos,  and  Gúzmans. 

"In  spite  of  our  ancestry,  our  family  did  not  enjoy 
any  especial  respect  from  the  townspeople  on  account 
of  the  display  we  made,  because  our  property  had 
diminished  somewhat,  and  also  because  the  new  liberal 

i ideas  were  beginning  to  make  themselves  felt. 
I  "My  father  owned  nearly  the  whole  village;  he  re- 
ceived a  contribution  from  every  chimney;  he  had  the 
only  interment  chapel  in  the  large  church;  and  a  pat- 
ronage in  several  smaller  churches  and  hermitages.  In 
spite  of  the  prestige  of  his  lineage  and  his  wealth,  every 


178         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

one  hated  him — justly,  I  believe,  for  he  was  despotic 
violent  and  cruel. 

''That  was  about  fifty  years  ago.  My  nose  did  not 
try  to  meet  my  chin  then,  nor  did  I  lack  any  teeth;  II 
was  a  lass  worth  looking  at;  graceful  as  a  golden  pine, 
and  blonder  than  a  candle.  Any  one  seeing  me  in  those 
days  would  have  liked  to  know  me!  I  lived  with  my 
father,  who  used  to  aim  a  blow  at  me  every  once  in  a 
while,  and  with  my  aunts,  who  were  busybodies, 
meddlers,  and  crazy. 

"As  I  have  already  said,  my  father  had  enemies; 
some  openly  avowed,  others  secret,  but  who  all  did  the 
greatest  amount  of  harm  they  could.  Among  them,  the 
most  powerful  was  the  Count  of  Doña  Mencia,  whose 
family,  much  more  recently  come  to  the  village  than 
ours,  was  slowly  acquiring  property  and  power. 

"The  rivalry  between  the  two  houses  was  increased 
by  a  lawsuit  which  the  Doña  Mencias  won  against  us, 
and  it  grew  into  a  savage  hatred  when  my  father  com- 
mitted the  offensive  act  of  violating  one  of  the  rival 
family's  little  girls. 

"The  Doña  Mencias  took  the  child  to  Cordova;  my 
father  once  heard  a  bullet  whistle  by  his  head  as  he 
was  on  his  way  to  a  farm — and  this  was  the  state  of 
affairs,  my  family  hated  by  our  rivals  and  by  nearly  all 
of  the  townspeople,  when  I  reached  my  eighteenth  year, 
with  no  one  to  advise  me  but  my  aunts. 

"I  was,  as  I  have  said  before,  very  pretty,  and  at- 
tracted attention  wherever  I  went.  Even  at  that  age 
I  had  already  had  two  or  three  beaux  with  whom  I  used 
to  talk  through  my  window-grating,  when  the  Count 
of  Doña  Mencia 's  eldest  son  began  to  call  upon  me,  and 
finally  to  ask  for  my  hand.    The  whole  village  was  sur- 


THE  MAN  OF  ACTION  179 

prised  at  this;  I  was  disposed  to  pay  no  attention  to 
him;  moreover,  I  received  several  anonymous  letters 
telling  me  that  if  I  listened  to  the  Count's  son,  very 
disagreeable  consequences  might  arise,  because  the  ha- 
tred was  still  latent  between  the  -two  families.  I  was 
just  about  decided  to  refuse  him,  when  my  aunts,  crazy 
novel  readers  that  they  were,  insisted  that  I  ought  to 
listen  to  him,  for  the  boy's  intentions  were  honourable, 
and  in  this  way  I  could  once  and  for  all  put  an  end  to 
the  rivalry  and  hatred. 

"My  father  prided  himself  upon  the  fact  that  he 
never  interfered  with  what  was  happening  in  the  family ; 
his  only  occupations  were  hunting,  drinking,  and  chasing 
after  farm  girls,  and  if  I  had  consulted  him  about  the 
affair,  he  would  have  sent  me  harshly  about  my  business. 

'  *  So,  following  my  aunts '  advice,  I  accepted  the  enemy 
of  our  home  as  a  sweetheart,  and  received  him  for  a  year. 
One  time  in  the  garden,  which  was  where  we  used  to  see 
each  other,  he  threw  himself  upon  me  and  attempted  to 
overpower  me;  but  people  came  in  answer  to  my  cries. 
My  betrothed  said  that  I  had  foolishly  taken  fright,  as 
he  was  only  trying  to  kiss  me ;  I  wanted  to  break  the  en- 
gagement, but  instead  of  breaking  off  our  relations,  the 
affair  only  hastened  the  wedding. 

' '  Grand  preparations  were  made,  but  so  sure  were  the 
townspeople  that  my  sweetheart  would  never  marry  me, 
that  servants,  friends,  every  one,  gave  me  to  understand 
that  the  wedding  would  never  take  place,  and  that  my 
betrothed  would  be  capable  of  changing  his  mind  at  the 
very  foot  of  the  altar.  Thus  warned,  I  attempted  to 
lessen  the  expense  of  the  wedding,  but  my  aunts  tried  to 
convince  me  not  to  do  such  a  crazy  thing. 

' '  In  fine,  the  day  which  was  as  dreaded  as  it  was  hoped 


180         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

for,  arrived;  my  betrothed  appeared  at  the  church,  and 
the  wedding  was  celebrated.  God  knows  how  many 
hopes  I  had  of  being  happy.  The  marriage  feast  was 
eaten;  the  ball  was  held.  The  festivities  lasted  until 
midnight,  when  we  retired. 

''The  next  morning  when  I  awoke,  I  looked  for  my 
husband  at  my  side,  but  did  not  find  him.  He  never 
appeared  all  day  long ;  they  looked  for  him,  but  in  vain. 
Days  and  days  passed,  and  more  days,  while  I  waited  for 
him,  fearing  an  accident  rather  than  an  insult.  After  a 
long  time,  I  received  a  mocking  letter  from  him  in  which 
he  told  me  that  he  would  never  come  back  to  me. 

''From  that  one  wedding  night,  I  became  pregnant, 
and  on  this  account  suffered  much  anxiety.  My  father, 
in  whom  the  affair  had  rekindled  the  anger  at  the  rival 
family,  assured  me  that  he  would  strangle  the  child  if 
it  were  born  alive:  my  aunts  did  nothing  but  weep  at 
every  turn. 

"I  was  restless;  I  don't  know  whether  from  pain  or 
what,  and  gave  premature  birth  at  eight  months  to  a 
dead  boy. 

"A  short  time  after,  my  father  died  of  a  fall  from  his 
horse,  the  administrator  started  a  lawsuit  against  us,  and 
took  all  our  property  from  us ;  my  older  brother  was  trav- 
elling, the  other  was  in  Rome ;  I  wrote  to  them,  and  they 
did  not  answer;  my  aunts  took  refuge  in  the  house  of 
some  relatives,  and  I  went  where  the  will  of  God 
took  me. 

"At  first  I  was  in  mortal  terror,  but  I  soon  got  used  to 
it,  and  did  everything.  I  've  lived  like  a  princess  and  like 
a  beggar;  I've  intrigued  in  high  circles,  and  have  been 
an  army  vivandiére.  I  have  been  in  a  battle  in  the 
Carlist  wars,  and  have  walked  among  the  bullets  with  the 


THE  MAN  OF  AOTION  181 

same  indifference  with  which  I  walk  the  streets  of  Cor- 
dova today. 

''After  a  while,  with  the  pain  I  suffered,  I  forgot 
everything, — everything  except  my  husband's  infamy, 
and  that  of  his  whole  family. 

''That  family  has  gone  on  implacably  bringing  dis- 
grace to  ours.  When  they  killed  your  father  there  was 
a  man  pursuing  him  with  the  soldiers.  Do  you  know  who 
he  was?  My  husband's  son.  And  his  grandson  was 
Rafaela 's  sweetheart,  the  one  who  left  her  when  he 
thought  she  was  penniless. 

"My  husband  married  again.  He  is  a  bigamist,  and 
probably  falsified  my  death  certificate.  Today  he  moves 
in  high  circles,  but  the  blow  he  gets  from  his  downfall 
will  be  all  the  greater. ' ' 

' '  What  are  you  thinking  of  doing  ? ' '  asked  Quentin. 

"Of  denouncing  him.  I  have  not  done  so  before  on 
account  of  my  older  brother.  I  don't  want  to  bring 
shame  to  him  in  his  last  days.  As  for  the  other  brother, 
I  don 't  mind ;  he  is  an  egoist.  When  the  Marquis  dies, 
you'll  see  what  I  shall  do.  If  I  die  before  he  does,  you 
will  avenge  me.     Will  you,  Quentin?" 

"Yes." 

"That's  all  I  want.  Your  word  is  enough.  Ask  me 
for  whatever  you  want,  and  come  to  see  me. ' ' 

Señora  Patrocinio  kissed  Quentin 's  cheek,  and  he  left 
the  house  confounded. 

"Now,"  he  murmured,  "this  woman  turns  out  to  be 
the  sister  of  a  marquis,  married  to  a  count,  and  my  aunt. 
And  she  wants  us  to  avenge  ourselves.  Why  then  let's 
do  so  ...  or  let's  not.  It's  all  the  same  to  me.  You 
know  your  plan,  Quentin,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Who 
are  you?"  he  asked  himself,  and  immediately  replied, 
"You  are  a  man  of  action.    Very  good!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 


THE  coterie  was  the  most  select  in  the  Casino. 
Its  members  used  to  meet  there  in  order  to 
speak  ill  of  everybody.  There  were  young  men 
who  did  nothing  but  ride  horseback,  try  the  strength  of 
young  bulls  by  prodding  them  with  long  pikes  from 
horseback,  and  gamble  their  souls  away ;  old  men  whose 
sole  occupation  was  talking  politics ;  and  a  great  variety 
of  persons  who  had  made  a  business  of  amusing  them- 
selves— a  fact  which  did  not  prevent  one  from  reading  a 
gloomy  weariness  in  their  expressions. 

This  meeting  of  aristocrats  and  plebeians,  of  rich  men 
and  poor  men,  of  vagrants  employed  and  unemployed, 
possessed  a  rare  character,  which  was  produced  by  a  pre- 
ponderance of  aristocratic  prejudices,  mixed  with  a  great 
simplicity. 

In  this  coterie,  so  democratic  in  appearance,  high  and 
low  had  their  say ;  even  the  waiters  in  the  Casino  mixed 
in  the  conversation.  It  possessed  those  characteristics, 
partly  affable,  partly  coarse,  that  the  Spanish  aristocracy 
had  had  until  foreign  ideas  and  customs  began  to  trans- 
form and  polish  it. 

In  that  meeting  one  gleefully  flayed  one's  neighbour. 
Amid  jests  and  laughter,  flagellated  by  jovial  satire, 
every  person  of  significance  in  the  town  marched  in  re- 
view, either  on  account  of  their  merits  or  their  vices, 

182 


"I  AM  A  LITTLE  CATILINE"  183 

their  stupidity  or  their  wit.  If  one  believed  what  was 
told  there,  the  city  was  a  hot-bed  of  imbroglios,  obsceni- 
ties, wild  escapades. 

Among  the  members  of  aristocratic  families  there  was 
a  multitude  of  alcoholics  and  diseased  individuals;  the 
rotten  produce  of  vicious  living  and  consanguineous  mar- 
riages. In  these  families  there  were  a  great  many  men 
who  seemed  to  be  obsessed  with  the  idea  of  going  through 
their  fortunes,  of  ruining  themselves  quickly;  others 
travelled  the  road  to  ruin  without  meaning  to,  through 
the  robbery  of  their  administrators  and  usurers ;  the  ma- 
jority were  simply  idiots;  the  clever  ones,  the  clear- 
sighted ones,  went  to  Madrid  to  play  politics,  leaving  the 
old  ancestral  homes  completely  dismantled. 

The  scandals  of  the  masses  were  mixed  with  those  of 
the  aristocracy ;  and  the  ingenuous  jests  of  the  charcoal- 
burners,  and  the  dissolute  wit  of  the  Celestinas,  were 
repeated  and  applauded  with  relish. 

They  spoke,  too,  and  constantly,  of  the  bandits  of  the 
Sierra;  they  knew  who  their  protectors  were  in  and  out 
of  Cordova,  where  their  hiding-places  were:  and  this 
friendship  with  bandits  was  not  looked  upon  as  a  dis- 
grace, but  rather  as  something  that  constituted,  if  not  a 
glorious  achievement,  at  least  a  spicy  and  piquant  attrac- 
tion for  the  town. 

' '  The  gangs  are  organized  in  the  very  jail  itself,  while 
the  bandits  walk  about  the  city. ' ' 

*'But,  is  that  true?"  asked  some  horrified  stranger. 

''Everything  you  hear  is,"  they  told  him  with  a 
laugh.  ' '  Even  the  abductions  of  Malaga  and  Seville  are 
planned  here."' 

' '  And  why  don 't  you  put  an  end  to  the  evil  ? ' ' 

When   the    Cordovese   heard   this   he   smiled   at   the 


184  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

stranger,  and  added  that  in  Cordova  they  had  never 
looked  upon  the  horsemen  as  an  evil. 

"While  the  aristocrats  and  plebeians  gave  food  for  gos- 
isip,  the  middle  class  worked:  lawyers,  priests,  and  mer- 
chants enriched  themselves,  conducted  their  business, 
while  a  cloud  of  citizens  from  Soria  fell  like  locusts  upon 
the  town,  and  took  possession  of  the  money  and  lands 
of  the  old,  wealthy  families  by  means  of  their  evil  skill 
at  money-lending  and  usury. 

One  evening  in  the  early  part  of  autumn,  several  gen- 
tlemen were  chatting  in  one  of  the  salons  of  the  Casino. 
They  were  members  of  the  early  coterie.  Some  were 
reading  newspapers,  and  others  were  talking,  seated  upon 
divans,  or  walking  to  and  fro. 

Springer,  the  Swiss  watch-maker's  son,  had  come  in 
to  read  a  newspaper,  and  as  he  read,  he  heard  them  talk- 
ing about  his  friend  Quentin,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for 
some  time.     He  listened  attentively, 

**But  is  it  true  he  has  come  into  some  money?"  asked 
a  stout,  red-faced  gentleman  with  a  grey  moustache. 

'*I  don't  know,"  answered  a  bald-headed  man  with  a 
black  beard.  **He  undoubtedly  has  money.  They  say 
that  he  has  bought  a  house  for  Maria  Lucena. ' ' 

''I  don't  believe  that." 

** Quentin  is  a  child  of  good  luck,"  added  another. 

**I  should  say  he  is,"  responded  he  of  the  black 
beard.     *' Lucky  at  cards,  and  lucky  at  love." 

*  *  Couldn  't  the  Marquis  have  given  him  some  money  ? ' ' 
asked  the  stout  gentleman. 

' '  The  Marquis !     He  hasn  't  a  penny. '  * 
**But  where  does  the  boy  get  his  money?" 
**I  don't  know — unless  he  steals  it." 

*  *  But  that  would  be  found  out. ' ' 


«I  AM  A  LITTLE  CATILINE"  185 

The  members  of  the  coterie  were  all  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment while  the  stout  gentleman  took  a  short  nap;  then 
^  he  said: 

k    *'Do  you  know  if  that  paper  that  has  just  been  pub- 
lished is\is  T ' 

''What  paper?    La  Víbora f"  asked  he  of  the  bald 
head. 
.  ''Yes." 
"I  don't  think  so." 

"Well,  they  say  it  is." 

"It  strikes  me  that  that  paper  is  owned  by  the  Ma- 
sons. ' ' 

"Oh,  but  don't  you  know  that  Quentin  is  a  Mason?" 
said  a  small,  dark  man  with  a  black  moustache. 

"Eeally?"  asked  every  one  at  once. 

"Yes,  indeed.  I  know  it  for  a  fact;  he  joined  the 
Lodge  this  summer. ' ' 

"Perhaps  he  makes  his  living  from  that,"  said  the 
fat  gentleman. 

"No  one  makes  a  living  from  that,"  replied  the  short 
man  with  a  laugh.  ' '  It  occurred  to  me  when  I  was  a  stu- 
dent in  Madrid  to  become  a  Mason,  and  do  you  know 
what  happened  ?  They  carried  me  about  from  one  place 
to  another  with  my  eyes  bandaged,  and  ended  by  taking 
five  dollars  away  from  me." 

Every  one  laughed.  At  this  point  a  young  man  en- 
tered and  stretched  out  in  an  arm  chair  with  an  air  of 
deep  gloom. 

"What's  up,  Manolillo?"  asked  the  bald-headed 
man. 

"Nothing.  Quentin  is  upstairs  plucking  everybody. 
If  he  quits  in  time,  he 's  going  to  come  out  ahead ;  if  he 
stays  in,  he  may  lose  everything." 


186  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Ajs  Springer,  who  heard  this,  was  a  man  of  good  in- 
tentions and  a  loyal  friend,  he  arose,  threw  his  paper 
upon  the  table,  left  the  salon,  went  through  a  gallery 
paved  with  marble,  up  a  flight  of  stairs,  and  entered  the 
gambling  hall. 

Quentin  was  dealing;  he.  had  a  pile  of  bills  and  gold 
coins  before  him.  Springer  went  up  to  him,  and  put  his 
hand  upon  his  shoulder.     Quentin  turned. 

''What  is  it?" 

' '  I  come, ' '  said  Springer  in  a  low  voice,  ' '  to  give  you 
the  advice  of  a  gambler  who  just  left  here  completely 
plucked.  He  said  that  if  you  quit  in  time,  you'll  come 
out  ahead ;  if  you  stay  in,  you  may  lose  everything. ' ' 

''Really?"  exclaimed  Quentin,  rising,  as  if  he  had 
just  received  important  news.  "Well,  then,  the  only 
thing  I  can  do  is  to  leave.  Gentlemen,"  he  added,  ad- 
dressing the  players,  "I  shall  return  in  a  little  while," 
and  placing  the  bills  in  his  folder,  he  rapidly  picked  up 
the  gold  coins. 

A  murmur  of  indignation  arose  among  the  players. 

"Come!"  said  Quentin  to  Springer. 

They  left  the  hall  rapidly,  descended  the  stairs,  and 
did  not  stop  until  they  had  reached  the  street. 

"But,  what  has  happened  to  you?"  the  Swiss  asked, 
utterly  surprised. 

"Nothing ;  it  was  a  stratagem,"  answered  Quentin  with 
a  smile.  "I  could  not  find  the  right  moment  to  leave 
decorously.  They  were  all  after  me  like  dogs ;  and  there 
I  was  boasting  like  a  man  to  whom  four  or  five  thousand 
dollars  more  or  less  are  of  little  importance.  They 
would  have  gone  up  in  smoke  soon." 

By  the  light  of  a  lamp,  Quentin  pulled  out  a  handful 
of  bills,  sorted  them,  and  put  them  into  a  folder;  and 


i 


"I  AM  A  LITTLE  CATILINE"  187 

then,  unbuttoning  first  his  coat,  and  then  his  vest,  he  put 
them  in  his  inside  pocket. 

^'Aren't  you  afraid  something  may  happen  to  you  in 
the  street?"  asked  the  Swiss. 

''Car' 

' '  Do  you  know  that  you  are  the  talk  of  the  town,  Quen- 
tin?" 

'^Aml?" 

''Really.  Besides,  you  have  a  tremendous  reputa- 
tion." 

''As  what?" 

"  As  a  Tenorio,  a  dare-devil,  a  gambler,  and  a  Mason. '  * 

Quentin  burst  out  laughing. 

"I  heard  in  the  Casino  here,"  Springer  went  on,  "that 
you  were  not  living  at  home  any  more,  but  with  an 
actress. ' ' 

"That's  true." 

' '  Have  you  quarrelled  with  your  family  ? ' ' 

"Yes;  I  got  angry  and  left  my  stepfather.  Usurers 
disgust  me. ' ' 

"It  also  seems  that  you  have  received  a  legacy  from 
some  relation  or  other  of  yours.     Is  that  true  ? ' ' 

"Boy,  I  don't  know,"  said  Quentin  ingenuously. 
"I've  invented  so  many  things,  that  now  I  don't  know 
which  is  the  truth  and  which  is  a  lie."  Then,  turning 
melancholy,  he  added,  "The  trouble  with  me  is  that  I 
am  out  of  my  element.     I'm  a  Northerner." 

"You!"  said  Springer;  and  he  began  to  laugh  so 
heartily  that  Quentin  joined  him. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?" 

' '  At  how  well- 1  know  you.  So  you  are  a  Northerner. 
What  a  faker  you  are !  .  .  .  What  shocks  me  is  that  you 
have  become  a  Mason.     That's  absurd." 


188  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

'  *  Yes ;  it 's  absurd  ta  you  and  me,  but  it  isn  't  to  many- 
people.'' 

' '  Where  is  your  Lodge  ? ' ' 

*'In  the  Calle  del  Cister,  near  the  Calle  del  Silencio. 
Would  you  like  to  come  ? ' ' 

*'What  for?" 

''Man,  we'll  baptize  you  anew;  we'll  call  you  Cato, 
Robespierre,  Spartacus  ..." 

''I  don't  believe  it's  worth  while  ..." 

"As  you  wish." 

''Your  Masonry  disgusts  me." 

"  It  Í5  ridiculous,  but  it  serves  for  something :  it  is  use- 
ful for  propaganda" 

"What  propaganda  are  you  putting  forward?" 

' '  Just  now  I  am  a  Federal  Republican. ' ' 

Springer  burst  out  laughing  again. 

"You're  a  Federal  Republican!  Like  my  country- 
men, the  Swiss. ' ' 

"You  think  it's  funny?" 

"Very,  my  lad.  You  couldn't  live  if  you  went  to 
Switzerland. ' ' 

"Well,  then,  there  I  would  be  a  Monarchist.  I  am 
nothing  at  heart.  I  am  a  man  of  action  who  needs 
money  and  complications  in  order  to  live.  Do  you  know 
what  name  they  have  given  me  at  the  Lodge  ? ' ' 

"What?" 

"Catiline.  They  have  hit  the  nail  on  the  head.  I 
am  a  little  Catiline.  What  an  admirable  chap  was  that 
Tribune  of  the  people!  Eh?  I  am  very  enthusiastic 
about  him." 

"Then,  Cicero  would  seem  despicable  to  you." 

"Ah!  absolutely  despicable.  Charlatan,  pedant, 
coward  ...  in  other  words — he  was  a  lawyer. ' ' 


"I  AM  A  LITTLE  CATILINE"  189 

' '  Listen, ' '  said  the  Swiss.  ' '  They  told  me  another  and 
more  serious  thing:  that  you  are  the  one  who  edits  that 
newspaper,  La  Vihora.     Is  that  true  ? ' ' 

''Yes." 

' '  Are  you  the  author  of  those  very  violent  satires  ? ' ' 

"Not  the  author;  the  inspirer.  Catiline  turned  li- 
beller? ...  It  would  be  unworthy  of  him." 

' '  But  don 't  you  realize  that  you  are  exposing  yourself 
to  a  very  serious  danger  ? ' ' 

''Ca!  Don't  you  believe  it.  Men  are  more  cowardly 
than  they  seem.  Moreover,  I  am  defended  by  a  lot  of 
people;  first  by  those  who  rejoice  over  and  enjoy  the 
satires — as  long  as  they  are  not  directed  against  them- 
selves ;  second,  by  my  friends,  of  whom  the  majority  are 
very  powerful  people ;  third  and  last,  and  this  is  what  I 
place  most  confidence  in,  I  am  defended  by  these  fists, 
and  because  I  don 't  give  a  fig  for  anybody. ' ' 

' '  Well,  you  certainly  are  acting  without  scruple  or  con- 
science. ' ' 

''Is  it  worth  while  to  live  otherwise?     I  believe  not." 

"Man  alive!  That  depends  upon  the  way  one  looks 
at  it." 

"That's  the  way  I  look  at  it.  The  spectacle  is  dan- 
gerous, but  amusing.  Well?  Are  you  coming  to  the 
Lodge?" 

"What  for?" 

"You  will  hear  several  orators  declaim  their  speeches, 
and  I  shall  present  you  to  Don  Paco  Sánchez  Cimillo, 
Master  Surgeon  and  Master  Mason.  If  you  wish  I'll 
make  a  speech  in  your  honour  on  human  liberty.  It  is  a 
discourse  which  I  have  learned  by  heart,  and  which,  with 
a  few  trifling  changes,  I  turn  loose  on  all  occasions,  mak- 
ing it  seem  different  each  time. ' ' 


190         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

**The  plan  does  not  tempt  me." 

''Then  if  you  don't  wish  to  go  to  the  Lodge,  I  shall 
take  you  to  the  tavern  in  the  Calle  del  Bodegoncillo. ' ' 

''What  are  you  going  to  do  there?" 

"I'm  going  to  pay  my  retinue.  Then  I  shall  present 
you  to  Pacheco. ' ' 

' '  To  which  Pacheco  ?     To  the  bandit  ? ' ' 

' '  The  same.     He  is  my  lieutenant. ' ' 

"The  devil!     Shall  I  be  safe  with  you?" 

"Yes;  safer  than  if  you  were  with  the  Alcalde." 

"But  you  keep  very  bad  company." 

' '  Whom  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  Pacheco  ?  Pacheco  is 
an  unfortunate  chap.  Ask  any  one,  and  they  will  tell 
you  that  he  was  forced  to  take  to  the  mountain  merely 
on  account  of  a  rooster." 

"Was  that  all?" 

"That  was  all.  On  account  of  a  rooster  called  Tum- 
banavios  or  Tumbalobos,  I  don't  exactly  remember  which. 
Pacheco  used  to  go  to  the  cock-fighting  ring  in  the  Calle 
de  las  Doblas,  and  one  day  he  got  mixed  up  in  an  argu- 
ment with  a  fellow  as  to  the  relative  merits  of  two 
fighting-cocks  .  .  .  and,  well,  they  had  words.  Pacheco 
stuck  a  knife  into  the  fellow,  with  bad  results,  and  left 
him  cold.  ...  A  man's  affair!"  added  Quentin  resign- 
edly. 

* '  Then  one  of  those  sergeants  of  the  guardia  civil  who 
like  to  stick  their  noses  into  everything,  insisted  upon 
hunting  Pacheco.  He  gave  chase  to  him  and  caught  up 
to  him ;  but  Pacheco,  seeing  that  the  game  was  about  up, 
and  remembering  the  words  of  Quevedo :  that  it  is  better 
to  be  ahead  by  a  blow  in  the  face  than  by  all  Castile,  dis- 
charged his  fowling-piece  at  the  guard.    This  also  had 


"I  AM  A  LITTLE  CATILINE"  191 

bad  results,  for  he  blew  his  skull  open  and  sent  him  to 
join  the  other  fellow." 

The  Swiss  applauded  the  story,  laughing  quietly. 

'  *  And  is  that  chap  from  this  city  ? "  he  asked. 

"I  think  he  is  from  Ecija  or  thereabouts." 

''What  kind  of  a  man  is  he?" 

''A  good  fellow." 

' '  Does  he  hurt  any  one  in  the  country  ? ' ' 

''No.  He  appears  at  a  farmhouse  and  asks  the  oper- 
ator for  a  loan  of  ten  or  twelve  dollars,  and  the  operator 
gives  it  to  him.     He 's  a  good  man. ' ' 

"Is  he  in  Cordova  now ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"Why  don't  they  arrest  him?" 

"They  don't  dare.  Don't  you  see  that  I  am  protect- 
ing him?" 

The  Swiss  looked  at  his  friend,  whom  he  admired  deep 
down  in  his  heart,  and  murmured  again  and  again: 

"My,  what  a  faker!" 

"It  has  been  my  custom  to  invite  him  to  dine  with  me 
in  the  Café  Puzzini  and  in  the  Rizzi  Tavern,"  added 
Quentin,  ' '  and  no  one  has  dared  to  interfere  with  him. ' ' 

Conversing  in  this  manner,  they  had  come  out  upon 
Las  Tendillas,  and  were  going  up  the  Calle  de  Gondomar 
toward  the  Paseo  del  Gran  Capitán.  They  walked  past 
San  Nicolás  de  la  Villa,  and  followed  the  Calle  de  la 
Concepción  toward  the  Puerta  de  Gallegos. 

A  strong  breeze  was  blowing  which  made  the  blinds  and 
windows  rattle  noisily. 

"Where  is  that  tavern?"  asked  Springer. 

"Right  here,"  answered  Quentin.  "This  is  the  Calle 
del  Niño  Perdido,  a  sort  of  cul-de-sac;  it  is  not  ours. 


19a         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

This  other  is  the  Calle  de  los  Ucedas ;  nor  is  that  the  one 
we  are  looking  for,  either." 

They  walked  on  a  few  paces. 

''This  is  the  Calle  del  Bodegoncillo,"  said  Quentin, 
*'and  here  is  the  tavern." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   TAVERN    IN   THE    CALLE    DEL    BODEGONCILLO 

THE  tavern  was  a  small  one ;  it  had  a  red  counter 
covered  with  zinc,  a  door  at  one  side  through 
which  one  passed  into  a  large  cellar  lit  by  two 
smoky  oil  lamps  and  several  black  lanterns.  That  night 
there  was  a  great  concourse  and  influx  of  people  in  the 
place.  Quentin  and  Springer  entered,  traversed  the 
outer  room,  then  crossed  the  cellar,  where  there  were 
several  occupied  tables,  and  sat  down  at  a  small  one  in 
the  light  of  an  oil  lamp. 

"This  is  our  table,"  said  Quentin. 

He  clapped  his  hands,  and  the  landlord,  a  man  by  the 
name  of  El  Pulli,  appeared;  he  ordered  some  crabs,  a 
ration  of  fried  fish,  and  a  bottle  of  Montilla.  Then  he 
said: 

"Bring  me  the  bill  for  everything  I  owe." 

El  Pulli  returned  presently  with  the  crabs,  the  fried 
fish,  and  the  wine,  and,  upon  a  dish;  a  paper  upon  which 
several  letters  and  figures  had  been  scrawled  in  blue 
ink. 

Quentin  took  the  paper,  pulled  out  several  bills  from 
his  vest  pocket,  and  proceeded  to  toss  them  upon  the 
plate. 

"Is  that  right?"  he  asked  of  El  Pulli. 

' '  It  must  be  right  if  you  counted  it, ' '  replied  the  man. 

193 


194         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

*  *  Here 's  something  for  the  boy, ' '  added  Quentin,  put- 
ting a  dollar  upon  the  table. 

**I  have  two  boys,  Don  Quentin,"  answered  El  Pulli 
slyly. 

*'Well,  then,  here's  something  for  the  other  one." 

That  clinking  of  silver  produced  an  extraordinary 
effect  in  the  tavern.  Every  one  looked  at  Quentin,  who, 
pretending  not  to  notice  the  fact,  began  to  eat  and  to 
carry  on  an  animated  conversation  with  his  friend. 

At  this  point  two  men  approached  the  table :  one  was 
tall,  smiling,  some  thirty  years  old,  toothless,  with  a  black 
beard  and  reddish,  blood-shot  eyes;  the  other  was  short, 
blond,  timid-  and  insignificant-looking. 

Quentin  greeted  them  with  a  slight  nod,  and  indicated 
that  they  should  be  seated. 

'  *  Here, ' '  said  Quentin  to  Springer,  indicating  the  man 
with  the  beard,  "you  have  a  thoroughgoing  poet;  the 
only  bad  thing  about  him  is  his  name:  he  is  called 
Cornejo.  He  is  Comeille  translated  into  Cordovese. 
But  sit  down,  gentlemen,  and  order  what  you  like ;  then 
we  shall  talk." 

The  two  men  seated  themselves. 

The  poet  looked  something  like  a  carp,  with  his  dull, 
protruding  eyes.  He  wore  very  short  trousers,  checked 
yellow  and  black,  and  carried  a  cane  so  worn  by  use 
that  he  had  to  stretch  out  his  arm  to  touch  the  ground 
with  it.  From  what  Quentin  said,  Cornejo  was  a  fantas- 
tic individual.  He  had  on  a  blue,  threadbare  coat  which 
he  called  his  ** black  suit,"  and  a  ragged  overcoat  which 
he  called  his  **surtout."  He  always  had  patches  in  his 
trousers ;  sometimes  these  were  made  of  cloth,  and  some- 
times of  rawhide ;  he  lived  in  the  perpetual  combination 
of  a  zealous  appetite  and  an  empty  stomach ;  he  fed  only 


THE  TAVERN  195 


upon  alcohol  and  vanity ;  hence  his  poetical  compositions 
were  so  ethereal  that  they  were  windy,  rather  than 
winged  verse. 

Once  when  he  was  walking  with  a  comrade  who  was 
also  a  poet  and  a  ragamuffin,  he  said,  pointing  to  some 
grand  ladies  in  a  carriage: 

' '  My  lad,  they  are  looking  at  us  with  a  contempt  that 
is  .  .  .  inexplicable." 

The  fellow  went  through  life  wandering  from  tavern 
to  tavern,  reciting  verses  of  Espronceda  and  Zorilla; 
sometimes  between  the  madrigals  and  romances,  he  com- 
posed some  terrible  poems  of  his  own  in  which  he  ap- 
peared as  a  ferocious  person  who  cared  for  no  liquid  but 
blood,  for  no  perfume  but  the  odour  of  graveyards,  and 
for  no  skies  but  tempestuous  ones. 

Cornejo  was  very  popular  among  the  workingmen,  and 
he  knew  all  the  toughs  and  ruffians  who  swarmed  in  the 
taverns.  The  short,  blond  chap  who  accompanied  him 
was  nervous. 

* '  This  gentleman, ' '  said  the  poet  to  Quentin,  pointing 
to  the  little  fellow,  ' '  is  the  printer.  If  you  can  give  him 
something  ..." 

''Very  well.  How  much  do  I  owe  you?"  asked  Quen- 
tin. 

''Here  is  the  invoice,"  said  the  little  man  humbly. 

"Don't  bring  any  invoices  to  me!  How  much  is 
it?" 

"Forty  dollars." 

"Good.     That's  all  right." 

Quentin  filled  a  glass  of  wine,  and  the  printer  looked 
at  him  rather  anxiously. 

"How  much  do  you  need  to  assure  the  publication  of 
the  paper  for  three  months  ? ' ' 


196  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

The  printer  took  out  paper  and  pencil  and  rapidly 
made  some  figures. 

''Two  hundred  dollars/'  said  he. 

* '  Good, ' '  replied  Quentin,  and  he  took  some  bills  from 
his  pocket-book  and  put  them  upon  the  table.  ' '  Here  are 
the  two  hundred  dollars.  I'll  pay  you  the  forty  that  I 
owe  you  when  I  can. ' ' 

''That's  all  right,"  said  the  printer,  picking  up  the 
money  without  daring  to  count  it.  "Would  you  like 
me  to  give  you  a  receipt  ? ' ' 

'a_    What  for?" 

The  printer  rose,  bowed  ceremoniously,  and  went  out. 

"How  about  you.  Cornejo?"  murmured  Quentin. 
"Do  you  need  some?" 

"Throw  me  ten  or  twelve  dollars." 

' '  Here  are  twenty ;  but  you  've  got  to  get  to  work.  If 
you  don't,  I'll  kick  you  out." 

"Don't  you  worry."  The  poet  stuck  the  bill  care- 
lessly into  his  pocket,  and  began  to  listen  to  the  conversa- 
tion of  the  persons  at  the  next  table.  One  of  these  was 
a  man  with  a  huge  beard  whom  they  called  El  Sardino ; 
the  other  was  a  charcoal-burner  with  a  grimy  face  called 
El  Mañano. 

"Listen  to  this  conversation,"  said  the  poet.  "It's 
worth  it." 

' '  But  what  does  that  man  give  you  ? "  El  Mañano  was 
saying  to  El  Sardino,  making  strange  grimaces  with  his 
sooty  face,  and  waving  his  arms. 

"He  gives  me  nothing,"  replied  the  other  very  seri- 
ously, "but  he  reports  me." 

' '  He  reports  you !     You  must  be  easy ! ' ' 

"It's  true." 

"But  what  good  has  it  done  you  to  know  him?" 


THE  TAVERN  197 


' '  It 's  done  me  a  lot  of  good,  and  I  am  grateful. ' ' 

''That's  almost  like  scratching  a  place  to  lie  down  in, 
comrade, ' '  said  El  Mañano  meaningly. 

''Well,  I'm  like  that,"  replied  El  Sardino.  "Of 
course  nothing  gets  ahead  of  me,  and  I  always  take  my 
hat  off  so  they  can  see  the  way  my  hair  is  parted. ' ' 

"You've  told  me  that  before." 

' '  I  don 't  understand  a  word  of  what  they  are  saying, ' ' 
said  the  Swiss  with  a  smile. 

"Nor  do  they  understand  each  other,"  remarked 
Quentin. 

"That's  their  way  of  talking,"  said  the  poet. 

"And  who  are  those  fellows?"  asked  Springer. 

"El  Sardino  is  an  itinerant  pedlar,"  replied  Cornejo. 
"He  makes  sling-shots  for  the  children  out  of  branches 
of  rose-bay,  and  whistles  out  of  maiden-hair  ferns;  the 
kind  that  have  little  seeds  in  them  to  make  them  trill. 
El  Mañano  is  a  charcoal-burner." 

' '  Of  whom  were  they  speaking  ?  " 

"Probably  of  Pacheco." 

"The  bandit?"  asked  Springer. 

Cornejo  fell  silent;  glanced  at  Quentin,  and  then, 
swallowing,  murmured: 

' '  Don 't  say  it  so  loud ;  he  has  many  friends  here. ' ' 

"That's  what  we  are,"  replied  Quentin. 

The  poet  could  not  have  been  pleased  by  this  turn  of 
the  conversation,  for  without  saying  another  word,  he 
addressed  the  charcoal-burner: 

"Hello,  Mañano!"  he  cried.  "It  looks  as  if  we'd 
caught  it  now,  eh  ?  Well,  look  out  they  don 't  take  you  to 
La  Higuerilla ! "' 

"Me! — to  La  Higuerilla?"  exclaimed  the  drunkard; 
' '  nobody  can  do  that ! " 


19S         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

*' Don't  you  want  to  go  there  any  more?" 

''No." 

* '  Why  not  ?     You  used  to  be  glad  to  go. ' ' 

''Because  they  used  to  treat  a  fellow  right;  but  now, 
as  you've  said  in  poetry,  they  don't  give  you  anything 
but  water,  a  blow  or  two  with  a  stick  now  and  then,  and 
that  stuff  that  smells  so  bad  .  .  .  pneumonia." 

The  poet  smiled  at  this  testimony  of  his  popularity. 

El  Sardino  and  El  Mañano  had  resumed  their  same 
parabolic  manner  of  speech,  when  there  came  humming 
into  the  tavern  a  small,  straight  man  with  a  short,  black 
moustache  that  looked  as  if  it  were  painted  on  his  lip,  a 
broad-brimmed  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes,  a  huge  watch 
chain  across  his  vest,  and  a  knotted  and  twisted  stick. 

When  Springer  caught  sight  of  this  ludicrous  indi- 
vidual, he  smiled  mockingly,  and  the  poet  said : 

"Here's  Carrahola." 

"What  a  funny  chapP' 

"He's  a  bully,"  replied  Cornejo. 

"Bah!"  exclaimed  Quentin,  "he's  a  poor  fellow,  who 
because  he  is  so  small,  has  the  fad  of  carrying  every- 
thing extra  large :  his  stick,  his  sombrero,  his  cigar-case. ' ' 

And  indeed,  as  if  to  demonstrate  this,  Carrahola  pulled 
a  silver  watch,  as  white  and  as  large  as  a  stew-pan,  from 
his  vest  pocket,  and  after  ascertaining  the  time,  asked 
the  landlord: 

"Has  Señor  José  come  yet?" 

"No,  Señor." 

'  *  But  is  he  coming  ? ' ' 

"I  can't  tell  you;  I  think  so." 

Carrahola  went  up  to  the  table  at  which  Quentin, 
Springer,  and  Cornejo  were  sitting,  drew  up  a  chair,  and 
sat  down  without  greeting  them. 


THE  TAVERN  199 


''This  is  a  great  night  for  finding  lone  jackasses,  Car- 
rahola,"  said  the  poet,  turning  to  the  little  man. 

The  fellow  turned  his  head  as  if  he  had  heard  the  voice 
from  the  other  side  of  the  room,  and  paid  no  attention. 
Carrahola  doubtless  considered  himself  a  great  bully ;  he 
noted  the  expectancy  in  the  tavern,  so  he  seized  Quentin  's 
glass,  held  it  up  to  the  light,  and  emptied  it  with  one 
swallow.  Quentin  took  the  glass,  and,  without  saying  a 
word,  took  careful  aim,  and  tossed  it  through  an  open 
window.  Then,  clapping  his  hands,  he  said  to  El  Pulli 
who  came  toward  him: 

"A  glass;  and  kindly  notify  this  person,"  and  he 
pointed  to  Carrahola,  ''that  he  is  in  the  way  here." 

"Move  on,"  said  the  innkeeper;  "this  table  is  occu- 
pied." 

Carrahola  pretended  not  to  understand;  he  took  a 
plug  of  tobacco  and  a  knife  from  his  coat,  and  began  to 
scrape  tobacco;  then  he  suddenly  put  the  instrument 
upon  the  table. 

"What  do  you  do  with  that?"  inquired  Quentin, 
pointing  to  the  blade  with  his  finger.     ' '  Flourish  it  ? " 

Carrahola  rose  tragically  from  the  table,  put  his  knife 
away  slowly,  seized  his  enormous  knotted  stick,  insinu- 
ated himself  into  his  broad  hat,  gave  a  little  pull  to 
the  lapels  of  his  coat,  and  said  dryly  and  contemptu- 
ously : 

"Some  one  is  talking  in  here  who  would  not  dare  to 
speak  thus  in  the  street." 

This  said,  he  spat  upon  the  floor,  wiped  away  the 
spittle  by  rubbing  it  with  the  sole  of  his  boot,  and  stood 
looking  over  his-  shoulder. 

' '  And  what  does  that  mean  ? ' '  asked  Quentin. 

' '  That  means,  that  if  you  are  a  man,  we  '11  have  two 


200         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

glasses  now,  and  then  go  and  cut  each  other's  hearts 
out." 

Without  replying  Quentin  stood  up,  seized  Carrahola 
by  the  neck  of  his  coat,  lifted  him  like  a  puppet,  and  let 
him  fall  upon  the  soles  of  his  boots,  which  struck  the  floor 
with  a  ludicrous  sound.  Everybody  burst  out  laughing. 
Carrahola  charged  furiously  at  Quentin  with  lowered 
head ;  but  the  latter  with  the  easy  movement  of  a  boxer, 
threw  him  over  his  hip  into  the  air ;  then  he  took  him  in 
his  two  strong  hands,  pushed  him  up  to  the  window,  and 
watch,  knife,  broad-brimmed  hat  and  all,  tossed  him  into 
the  street. 

''You'll  have  to  learn  how  to  treat  people  politely," 
said  Quentin  after  the  operation  was  over. 

' '  What  a  lad ! "  exclaimed  El  Mañano.  ' '  He  dropped 
him  in  the  box  like  a  letter ! ' ' 

Murmurs  of  admiration  were  heard  all  over  the  tav- 
ern. Then  a  boy,  or  a  small  man  (one  could  not  de- 
termine his  age  easily),  with  reddish  hair  and  a  very 
freckled  face,  a  mutilated  calañés,  and  a  twill  coat,  came 
hopping  toward  Quentin. 

"Good  evening,"  he  said.  "El  Carroso,  that  carter 
over  there,  has  some  friends  who  say  that  if  he  'tried 
wrists '  with  you,  he  could  beat  you.  We  say  he  couldn  't 
do  it.  Would  you  like  to  try  wrists  with  him,  Don 
Quentin?" 

' '  No,  not  now,  thanks. ' ' 

' '  Excuse  me  if  I  was  wrong  to  ask  you ;  but  some  are 
betting  on  you  and  others  on  him. ' ' 
"Whom  did  you  bet  on?" 
"On  you." 

"Good,  then  let's  go  over." 
"El  Rano  is  always  making  bets,"  said  Cornejo. 


THE  TAVERN  £01 


''Is  his  name  El  Rano?" 

''Haven't  you  noticed  his  face?" 

The  little  man  turned  around,  and  Springer  was  forced 
to  suppress  a  smile.  Sure  enough,  he  looked  exactly  like 
a  frog,  with  his  protruding,  bulgy,  stupid-looking  eyes, 
his  broad  face,  bottle-shaped  nose,  and  mouth  that  spread 
from  ear  to  ear. 

' '  Where  is  El  Garroso  ? ' '  asked  Quentin. 

"At  that  table  over  there." 

A  man  arose,  smiling;  he  was  round  shouldered,  with 
bow  legs  and  arms,  a  square  head,  a  bull  neck,  and  a 
swelling  something  like  a  coxcomb  in  the  middle  of  his 
forehead. 

El  Rano,  El  Garibaldino,  and  El  Animero  placed  a 
table  and  two  chairs  in  the  middle  of  the  tavern.  El 
Garroso  sat  down,  followed  directly  by  Quentin. 

"Well,  as  this  is  not  a  fighting  matter,"  said  Quentin 
to  El  Garroso,  "we'll  have  two  rounds,  eh?" 

"Si,  Señor." 

They  placed  their  elbows  upon  the  table,  clasped  hands, 
and  the  chairs,  the  table,  and  even  the  bones  of  the  adver- 
saries began  to  creak. 

El  Garroso  turned  red ;  a  vein  in  his  forehead,  as  large 
as  a  finger,  looked  as  if  it  were  about  to  burst.  Quentin 
was  impassive. 

"Do  you  think  you  are  going  to  lose.  Rano?"  he  said 
to  the  little  man. 

"No,  indeed." 

"That's  right.  Now  you'll  see."  And  without  mak- 
ing an  apparent  effort — cra<3k!  El  Garroso 's  arm  fell 
to  the  table,  his  knuckles  striking  the  boards  forcibly. 

Every  one  was  astonished. 

* '  Good,  now  let 's  try  it  again, ' '  said  Quentin. 


g02         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

**No,  no.  You're  stronger  than  I  am,"  murmured 
El  Garroso. 

Quentin  said  that  it  was  all  a  matter  of  practice,  and 
was  chatting  away,  when  Carrahola,  who  could  not  have 
been  hurt  by  his  fall,  doubtless  lifting  himself  by  his 
hands,  and  hoisting  himself  until  his  head  reached  the 
height  of  the  window  through  which  he  had  made  his 
exit  so  brusquely,  shouted  with  a  prolongation  of  the 
*'o": 

*' Gallego!'' 

'  *  I  'm  going  out  and  beat  him  up, ' '  said  El  Pulli .  * '  I  '11 
show  him  something  pretty  fine ; ' '  and  the  man  closed  the 
window  and  barred  it  with  a  stick. 

Presently  Carrahola  shouted  through  the  keyhole  of 
the  street  door: 

'' Oscurantista!' ' 

At  this  moment  some  one  knocked  at  the  door,  Pulli 
opened  it,  and  Pacheco  and  a  friend,  both  wrapped  in 
cloaks,  entered,  followed  by  Carrahola. 

''The  peace  of  God  be  with  you,  gentlemen,"  said 
Pacheco.  "Who  is  it  that  is  entertaining  himself  by 
throwing  my  friends  through  the  window?" 

*'It  was  I,"  replied  Quentin. 

*'Ah!     Is  that  you?     I  didn't  see  you," 

*'Yes,  sir;  and  I'll  throw  him  out  again  if  he  bothers 
me. 

"If  it  was  you,  that's  another  matter,"  said  Pacheco. 
"I  know  that  you  don't  like  to  stick  your  nose  into 
other  people's  aifairs." 

Springer  observed  with  surprise  the  prestige  that 
Quentin  enjoyed  among  that  class  of  people.  Pacheco 
and  his  friend,  who  was  a  toreador  called  Bocanegra, 


THE  TAVERN  •  20S 


sat  down.  Quentin  introduced  them  to  the  Swiss,  and 
they  all  fell  into  an  animated  conversation. 

Carrahola  remained  some  distance  away,  in  an  atti- 
tude of  suspicion. 

''Come,  Carrahola,"  said  Pacheco,  ''it  was  your 
fault." 

' '  Then  excuse  me,  if  I  was  wrong, ' '  said  Carrahola. 

"Nothing  has  happened  at  all,"  said  Quentin, 
holding  out  his  hand.  "Take  a  glass,  and  let's  be 
friends. ' ' 

Bocanegra,  the  toreador,  said  ironically: 

"Come  now,  Carrahola,  this  isn't  the  first  beating  you 
ever  had." 

' '  Nor  will  it  be  the  last, ' '  replied  the  other  very  seri- 
ously. 

Springer  watched  the  people  with  great  curiosity.  He 
was  surprised  at  Pacheco 's  courtesy:  one  could  see  that 
he  was  cultured;  a  man  of  natural  superiority,  neat, 
and  with  well-kept  hands.  The  toreador  was  a  strong- 
looking  fellow  with  bright  eyes  and  white  teeth. 

' '  One  moment, ' '  said  Quentin.  ' '  Pacheco,  please  come 
here." 

The  bandit  got  up,  and  the  two  men  went  to  one  end 
of  the  table  and  conversed. 

' '  Have  you  seen  the  Count  ? ' '  asked  Quentin. 

"Yes." 

"What  does  he  say?" 

' '  That  the  woman  is  mad ;  that  he  has  only  been  mar- 
ried once,  like  every  one  else. ' ' 

' '  All  we  have  to  do  is  to  go  to  the  town  and  get  hold  of 
the  wedding  certificate.     Send  one  of  your  men." 

"I'll  need  money  for  that,  comrade." 


204.  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

*'I  have  some.  I'm  going  to  give  you  all  I  have  left. 
If  you  have  time,  pay  El  Cuervo  what  I  owe  him. ' ' 

"Very  well." 

Quentin  emptied  his  pocket  upon  the  table. 

''There's  more  than  enough  here,"  said  the  bandit. 
* '  You  'd  better  keep  some. ' ' 

Quentin  put  away  a  few  bills,  and  they  rejoined  the 
group. 

The  conversation  again  turned  upon  revolutionary 
ideas,  about  which  Pacheco  and  Bocanegra  were  most  en- 
thusiastic. The  bandit  spoke  very  devotedly  of  General 
Prim. 

"I  don't  think  there  is  a  man  like  him  in  the  world, 
and  you  needn  't  laugh,  comrade, ' '  said  Pacheco  to  Quen- 
tin, ''you  are  not  as  patriotic  as  I  am." 

"Every  person  admires  his  own  likeness,"  replied 
Quentin  coldly. 

"Do  you  think  I  am  like  Prim?"  asked  the  bandit. 

' '  No.     It  is  Prim  who  is  like  Pacheco. ' ' 

"I  think  I  ought  to  be  angry  with  you  ..." 

Suddenly  El  Sardino's  voice  interrupted  the  conver- 
sation, shouting: 

"Look  here,  leave  me  alone;  you're  making  my  head 
hot." 

El  Mañano,  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion,  at  that  mo- 
ment doubtless  remembered  his  business  of  charcoal- 
burning,  for  he  examined  closely  his  interlocutor's  head, 
which  was  huge,  and  murmured  in  a  thick  voice : 

"Why,  it  would  take  a  whole  cartload  of  wood  even 
to  soften  it  a  little!" 

Everybody  laughed  when  they  saw  El  Sardino's  ex- 
pression of  indignation,  and  went  on  talking. 

' '  One  can  do  nothing  here, ' '  said  Pacheco  to  Springer. 


THE  TAVERN  205 


**We  talk  a  lot,  but  words  are  as  far  as  we  get.  We 
Andalusians  are  very  like  the  colts  from  this  part  of  the 
country:  a  great  deal  of  hoof  with  very  little  sole." 

''Don't  say  that,  Señor  José,"  Cornejo  ejaculated  in- 
dignantly. 

' '  I  say  it  because  it  is  true.  What  do  all  those  men  on 
the  committee  do?  Will  you  tell  me?  What  good  is 
that  Lodge?" 

''Even  God's  interpreter  don't  know  that,"  said  El 
Mañano,  who  had  joined  the  group  in  the  last  stages  of 
alcoholic  intoxication.  "But  here,"  and  he  struck  his 
chest,  "is  a  man.  Señor  José  ...  a  man  among  men 
.  .  .  willing  to  die  on  a  barricade.  Si,  Señor  .  .  .  and 
whenever  you  or  Don  Quentin  give  the  signal,  we'll  get 
after  the  Oscurantistas.  .  .  .  Long  live  the  Constipa- 
tion, and  death  to  Isabella  II ! " 

"That  will  do,  that  will  do.  Get  out,"  said  the  ban- 
dit. 

"But  I'm  always  liberal,  Señor  José  .  .  .  here,  and 
everywhere  else  ..." 

' '  Let 's  go, ' '  said  Quentin.  ' '  He  '11  be  giving  us  a  great 
drubbing. ' ' 

They  got  up,  and  the  innkeeper  lighted  their  way  to 
the  street  doer  with  a  small  lamp.  They  walked  together 
as  far  as  El  Gran  Capitán;  Cornejo,  Bocanegra  and 
Pacheco  turned  in  the  direction  of  Los  Tejares ;  Quentin 
and  the  Swiss  went  down  the  Calle  de  Gondomar. 

' '  But  what  do  you  expect  of  those  people  ? ' '  Springer 
asked  presently. 

"I!  I  don't  know,  my  boy;  now — to  be  strong,  .  .  . 
later — we  shall  see. ' ' 

"Do  you  read  Machiavelli ? " 
■     "I  read  nothing.     Why  ? ' ' 


206  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

' '  You  are  an  extraordinary  man,  Quentin. '  * 

^'Bah!" 

''Really.     A  type  worth  studying." 

''Well,  look  here,  if  you  wish  to  study  me,  go  to  the 
Café  del  Recreo  some  night.  There  you'll  meet  the  girl 
that 's  living  with  me. ' ' 

"I  shall  go." 

They  had  reached  Las  Tendillas ;  it  was  very  late,  and 
the  two  friends  took  leave  of  each  other  with  a  warm 
handshake. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   PLEASANT   IRONIES   OF  REALITY 

¡H       A        FEW    days    later,    on    a    Sunday    afternoon, 

K    /\       Quentin  went  out  for  a  horseback  ride.     Before 

P  X    JL     turning  toward  the  mountain,  he  drew  rein  in 

the  Paseo  de  la  Victoria  to  watch  the  people  as  they 

went  by. 

His  reputation  as  a  gambler,  a  dare-devil,  and  a  rude 
and  powerful  man,  made  it  possible  for  him  to  have  his 
little  successes  with  the  ladies,  and  more  than  one  of 
them  looked  at  him  with  the  long,  staring,  and  penetrat- 
ing glance  of  a  woman  not  altogether  understood  by  her 
husband. 

As  was  customary  on  fiesta  days,  the  carriages  were 
driven  to  and  fro  along  the  Paseo,  and  among  them  rode 
several  horsemen  on  spirited  mounts.  In  one  of  his 
turns,  Quentin  saw  Rafaela  and  Remedios  alone  in  a 
carriage.  Neither  of  the  two  girls  noticed  his  presence, 
and  in  order  that  this  should  not  happen  again,  Quentin 
placed  himself  in  such  a  position  that  they  would  have  to 
see  him  as  they  came  back. 

Remedios  was  the  first  to  recognize  him,  and  she  told 
her  sister.  Quentin  bowed  to  them  very  ceremoniously. 
When  they  reached  the  extreme  end  of  the  drive,  Rafaela 
must  have  told  her  coachman  to  leave  the  Paseo.  Reme- 
dios looked  back  several  times.  Quentin  rode  up  to  the 
carriage  and  entered  into  conversation  with  the  two  sis- 
ters.    Rafaela  was  pale  and  had  dark  rings  under  her 

207 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

eyes ;  she  was  in  the  last  month  of  pregnancy ;  her  eyes 
were  sunken  and  her  ears  transparent. 

Remedios  was  prettier  than  ever;  she  was  just  reach- 
ing that  intermediate  stage  when  the  child  becomes  the 
woman. 

''Are  you  two  girls  well?"  Quentin  asked  them  with 
real  interest. 

' '  I  am  well, ' '  answered  Rafaela  a  trifle  weakly.  ' '  Just 
waiting  from  day  to  day  .  .  .  and  you  can  see  for  your- 
self that  Remedios  is  prettier  and  healthier  than  ever." 

Remedios  burst  into  one  of  her  silent  laughs. 

"Yes,"  replied  Quentin,  "one  can  see  that  the  coun- 
try is  good  for  Remedios. ' ' 

"Don't  you  believe  it!"  exclaimed  the  child.  "I 
would  rather  live  in  our  house  on  the  Calle  del  Sol." 

"They  say  you  have  become  a  terrible  person,"  said 
Rafaela.  ' '  I  believe  you  write  for  the  papers,  .  .  .  that 
you  keep  bad  company  ..." 

"Nothing  to  it — just  gossip." 

"And  you  don't  go  to  the  house  any  more,  either. 
You  have  deserted  poor  grandfather. ' ' 

"That's  true.  I'm  always  thinking  about  going,  but 
I  never  do." 

' '  Well,  he  asks  after  you  all  the  time.  The  poor  dear 
is  very  ill,  and  so  lonely.  .  .  .  Since  we  have  been  in 
town,  we  have  been  to  see  him  every  day. ' ' 

"Well,  I'll  go,  too,  don't  you  worry."  ^ 

"Go  tomorrow,"  said  Remedios.  ^ 

"Very  well,  tomorrow  it  is.  But  did  you  two  leave 
the  Paseo  on  my  account?" 

"No,"  replied  Rafaela,  "I  don't  like  to  drive  in  that 
line  for  very  long  at  a  time.  It  makes  my  head  swim. 
We  are  on  our  way  home^  now.    Adiós,  Quentin."  í 


THE  PLEASANT  IRONIES  OF  REALITY      209 

''Adiós!" 

Quentin  took  the  mountain  road,  and  trotted  his  horse 
as  far  as  the  Brillante  lunch-room. 

The  encounter  had  given  rise  to  a  mixture  of  sadness 
and  irony  within  him,  which  seemed  as  distressing  as  it 
did  grotesque  to  him. 

''Is  there  anything  of  special  significance  about  it?" 
he  asked  himself. 

No,  there  was  nothing  of  special  significance  about  it. 
It  was  the  logical  thing.  She  had  married ;  her  husband 
was  young;  she  was  going  to  have  a  child.  It  was  the 
natural  course  of  events;  and  yet,  Quentin  wondered 
at  her. 

We  often  see  strange  birds  flying  in  the  heavens.  They 
are  like  men's  illusions.  Sometimes  these  birds  fall, 
wounded  by  some  hunter,  and  when  one  sees  them  upon 
the  ground  with  their  sad  eyes,  their  white  feathers, — 
they  are  a  surprise  to  whomsoever  contemplates 
them.  ...  It  is  because  man  idealizes  all  distant  ob- 
jects. 

Quentin,  dominated  by  his  half-dolorous,  half-gro- 
tesque impressions,  returned  slowly  to  the  town. 

When  he  reached  the  Paseo  de  la  Victoria,  night  had 
already  fallen.  The  line  of  carriages  was  still  filing  past. 
The  mountain  was  wrapped  in  a  mist ;  the  sun  was  sink- 
ing over  the  distant  meadows,  its  great,  red  disk  hiding 
itself  behind  the  yellow  fields;  a  bluish  hill  surmounted 
by  a  castle  stood  out  in  silhouette  against  the  rosy- 
tinted  horizon. 

Few  carriages  were  passing  now;  above  the  old  wall 
and  gateway  of  Almodóvar,  the  yellowish  tower  of  the 
cathedral  showed  against  the  azure  sky,  which  was  now 
beginning  to  be  decorated  with  stars. 


210         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

All  of  the  carriages  left  the  Victoria  to  drive  up  and 
down  the  Paseo  del  Gran  Capitán. 

Quentin  entered  a  café. 

"I  must  get  out  of  this  city,"  he  thought.  *'I  ought 
to  go  to  London." 

Then  he  remembered  the  frequent  rain,  the  wooden 
coachmen  in  their  cabs,  the  blue  mist  in  the  fields  near 
Windsor,  and  the  ships  that  glided  down  the  Thames  in 
the  fog. 

He  left  the  café.  The  carriages  continued  to  pass  up 
and  down  El  Gran  Capitán,  enveloped  in  an  atmosphere 
of  dust. 

Quentin  went  home.  Maria  Lucena  was  getting  ready 
to  go  to  the  theatre. 

*  'What 's  the  matter  with  you  ? ' '  she  said. 

''Nothing." 

Quentin  stretched  out  upon  a  sofa  and  spent  hour 
after  hour  recalling  the  fog,  the  dampness,  and  the  cool 
atmosphere  of  England,  until  he  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XX 

PHILOSOPHERS   WITHOUT    REALIZING   THE   FACT 

THE  next  evening,  Quentin,  whose  nebulous 
and  Anglgmaniacal  fever  had  already  quieted 
down,  went  to  sup  at  the  Café  del  Recreo. 
María  Lucena,  with  her  mother  and  a  chorus  girl  friend 
were  waiting  for  him. 

''Well,  you're  pretty  late,"  said  Maria  Lucena  as  she 
saw  him  enter  the  café. 

Quentin  shrugged  his  shoulders,  sat  down  and  called 
the  waiter. 

Maria  Lucena  was  the  daughter  of  a  farm  operator 
near  Cordova.  She  had  little  voice,  but  a  great  deal  of 
grace  in  her  singing  and  dancing ;  a  strong  pair  of  hips 
that  oscillated  with  a  quivering  motion  as  she  walked ;  a 
pale,  vague-looking  face;  and  a  pair  of  black,  shining 
eyes.  Maria  Lucena  married  a  prompter,  who  after 
three  or  four  months  of  wedded  life,  considered  it  natural 
and  logical  that  he  should  live  on  his  wife;  but  she 
broke  up  the  combination  by  throwing  him  out  of  the 
house. 

The  girl  who  accompanied  Maria  Lucena  in  the  café 
was  a  chorus  girl  of  the  type  that  soon  stand  out  from 
their  sisters  and  begin  to  take  small  parts.  She  was  a 
small  woman,  with  very  lively  black  eyes,  a  thin  nose,  a 
mouth  with  a  mocking  smile  that  lifted  the  commissures 

211 


£ia  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

of  her  lips  upward,  and  black  hair  adorned  with  two  red 
carnations. 

The  old  woman  with  them  was  Maria's  mother;  fat, 
wrinkled,  and  covered  with  moles,  with  a  lively  but 
suspicious  look  in  her  eyes. 

Quentin  began  to  eat  supper  with  the  women.  His 
melancholy  fit  of  blues  of  the  day  before  had  left  him, 
but  he  looked  sad  for  dignity's  sake,  and  because  it 
was  consistent  with  his  character. 

Maria  Lucena,  who  had  noticed  Quentin 's  abstraction, 
glanced  at  him  from  time  to  time  attentively. 

''Well,  let's  be  going,"  said  Maria. 

The  two  girls  and  the  old  woman  arose,  as  it  was  time 
for  the  entertainment  to  begin,  and  Quentin  was  left 
alone,  distracted  by  his  efforts  to  convince  himself  as  well 
as  others,  that  he  was  very  sad. 

Then  Springer,  the  Swiss,  came  in  and  sat  by  Quen- 
tin's  side. 

''What's  the  matter?"  he  said,  taking  his  friend's 
funereal  look  seriously. 

"I  feel  sad  today.  Yesterday  I  saw  a  girl  I  used  to 
like.  The  granddaughter  of  a  marquis.  She  who  mar- 
ried Juan  de  Dios." 

' '  What  then  ?     What  happened  to  you  ?  " 

' '  She  looks  badly.     She  won 't  last  long. ' ' 

"The  poor  little  thing!" 

In  a  lugubrious  voice  Quentin  told  all  about  his  love 
affair,  heaping  on  insignificant  details,  and  wearying  ex- 
cuses. 

Springer  listened  to  him  with  a  smile.  His  fine, 
spiritual  countenance  changed  expression  sympathet- 
ically with  everything  his  friend  said.  Then  he  himself 
spoke  confusedly.    Yes,  he  too  had  had  a  romantic  love 


PHILOSOPHERS  ^13 

affair,  ...  a  very  romantic  one,  .  .  .  with  a  young 
lady ;  but  he  was  only  a  poor  Swiss  plebeian. 

Any  one  who  heard  them  would  have  said  that  Quen- 
tin's  affair  had  lasted  years,  and  the  Swiss's  only  days. 
It  was  exactly  the  opposite.  Quentin's  fidelity  lasted 
just  about  two  or  three  months,  at  the  end  of  which  time 
he  began  his  affair  with  Maria  Lucena.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  Swiss  had  been  faithful  for  years  and  years 
to  an  impossible  love. 

As  they  chatted,  Don  Gil  Sabadia,  the  archaeologist, 
appeared  in  the  café.  After  shaking  hands  with  the 
Swiss  and  with  Quentin,  he  sat  down  at  their  table. 

"It's  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen  you,"  he  said 
to  Quentin.     *'How  about  it — are  we  gaining  ground?" 

"Psh!     If  I  could  get  out  .  .  ." 

''Don't  pay  any  attention  to  him  today,"  said 
Springer.     "  He 's  full  of  spleen. ' ' 

' '  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ? ' '  asked  the  archaeologist. 

''Women." 

"The  females  in  this  city  are  very  attractive,  com- 
rade ;  they  are  good  to  look  at. ' ' 

"They  seem  insignificant  to  me,"  said  Quentin. 

"Man  alive,  don't  say  that,"  exclaimed  the  Swiss. 

"Pale-faced,  rings  under  their  eyes,  weak,  badly  nour- 
ished .  .  ." 

"Will  you  deny  their  wit,  too?"  asked  Springer. 

' '  Yes, ' '  answered  Quentin.  ' '  They  make  a  lot  of  ges- 
tures, and  have  a  fantastic  manner  of  speech  that  is 
overloaded  with  imagery.  It's  a  sort  of  negro  talk. 
I  always  notice  that  when  Maria  Lucena  tells  something, 
she  compares  everything,  whether  material  or  not,  with 
something  material:  'it's  better  than  bread,'  or  'it  has 
less    taste    than    a    squash'  .  .  .  everything    must    be 


ál4  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

materialized;  if  not,  I  don't  believe  she  would  under- 
stand it.  .  .  .  She  is  like  a  child  .  .  .  like  an  imperti- 
nent child. ' ' 

*  *  What  a  portrait ! ' '  exclaimed  the  Swiss,  laughing. 

''Then  she  makes  divisions  and  subdivisions  of  every- 
thing; every  object  has  twenty  names.  There  is  a  little 
bottle  of  cherry  brandy  in  the  house — of  that  cherry 
brandy  that  I  hold  as  something  sacred ;  well,  sometimes 
Maria  calls  it  'the  parrot,'  sometimes  'the  greenfinch,' 
and  sometimes,  'the  green  bird.'  .  .  .  And  that  isn't  all. 
The  other  day,  pointing  to  the  bottle,  she  called  to  her 
mother  from  her  bed :  '  Mother,  bring  me  that  what  's-its- 
name. '  ...  So  you  see,  for  that  class  of  people,  language 
is  not  language — it  is  nothing." 

"Doesn't  that  indicate  inventive  genius?"  asked  the 
Swiss. 

' '  But  what  do  I  want  of  inventive  genius.  Springer  ? ' ' 
exclaimed  Quentin  loudly.  "Why,  a  woman  doesn't 
need  inventive  genius !  All  she  needs  is  to  be  pretty  and 
submissive,  and  nothing  else  ..." 

' '  You  are  tremendous, ' '  said  the  Swiss.  ' '  So  that  for 
you,  a  woman's  intelligence  is  of  no  account?" 

"But  that  isn't  intelligence!  That  is  to  intelligence 
what  the  movement  of  those  men  who  go  hopping  about 
nodding  to  one  and  talking  to  another,  is  to  real  activity. 
The  former  is  not  intelligence  nor  is  the  latter  activity. 
The  thing  is  to  have  a  nucleus  of  big,  strong  ideas  that 
direct  your  life.  ...  As  the  English  have." 

' '  I  have  an  antipathy  for  the  English, ' '  said  the  Swiss. 
"As  for  Andalusia,  I  believe  that  if  this  country  had 
more  culture,  it  would  constitute  one  of  the  most  com- 
prehensive and  enthusiastic  of  peoples.  Other  Spaniards 
are  constantly  bargaining  with  their  appreciation  and 


PHILOSOPHERS  S15 

admiration;  the  national  vice  of  Spain  is  envy.  Not  so 
with  the  Andalusians.  They  are  ready  to  admire  any- 
thing." 

' '  It 's  a  racial  weakness, ' '  exclaimed  Quentin.     ' '  They 
are  all  liars." 
,        ''You,  who  are  an  Andalusian,  must  not  say  that." 

*'I?  Never.  I  am  a  Northerner.  From  London, 
Windsor.  .  .  .  Why  did  I  ever  come  here?" 

Maria  Lucena,  her  little  friend,  and  her  mother  came 
in.     The  Swiss  and  Don  Gil  bowed  to  them. 

''You  must  defend  the  Andalusians,"  said  Springer 
to  the  actress;  "for  Quentin  is  turning  them  inside 
out." 

k  "What's  he  here  for,  then?"  inquired  Maria  bitterly. 
"That's  just  what  I  was  saying,"  added  Quentin. 
What  did  I  come  to  this  city  for  ? ' ' 

"I  know  what  all  this  sadness  comes  from,"  said 
Maria  Lucena  in  Quentin 's  ear. 

"Do  you?    Well,  I'm  glad." 

' '  You  saw  your  cousin  yesterday ;  the  one  with  a  face 
that  looks  as  if  she  had  a  sour  stomach.  They  say  that 
she  can 't  yet  console  herself  for  her  former  sweetheart 's 
leaving  her.     That 's  why  she  is  so  sad. ' ' 

Quentin  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

' '  Has  she  had  the  baby  yet,  or  is  it  just  dropsy  ? ' ' 

Again  Quentin  did  not  deign  to  answer.  She  indig- 
nantly turned  her  head  away. 

"So,  because  you  saw  her  changed  into  a  worm,  you 
came  in  so  sad  and  downhearted  yesterday,  eh  ? " 

' '  Possibly, ' '  said  Quentin  coldly. 

' '  If  you  had  seen  me  in  the  same  condition,  you  would 
have  felt  it  less. ' ' 

"What  intelligence!" 


216  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

*'Well,  son,  it's  time  we  quit,"  replied  the  actress 
angrily.  ''If  you  think  nothing  of  me,  I  feel  the  same 
way  toward  you." 

Quentin  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  others,  seeing 
the  prelude  to  a  tempest,  were  silent. 

Maria  Lucena's  voice  grew  shrill  and  disagreeable. 

*'Do  you  know  what  her  stepmother,  the  Countess, 
said?  Well,  she  said:  'For  all  her  prudishness,  that 
hussy  has  married  Juan  de  Dios  for  his  money ! ' ' 

"What  that  female  said  is  not  important." 

"All  women  are  just  females  to  you  ..." 

"And  it's  true." 

"Well,  if  you  say  that  about  me  .  .  ."  1 

"Come,  come,  this  is  no  place  for  a  scene,  and  don*t 
shout  so." 

"Are  you  going  to  strike  me?  Tell  me,  are  you  going 
to  strike  me?" 

"No;  I  shall  prudently  withdraw  first,"  answered 
Quentin,  rising  and  getting  ready  to  go. 

At  this  moment  Cornejo,  the  poet,  entered  the  café 
accompanied  by  a  tall,  thin  gentleman  with  an  aquiline 
nose,  and  a  very  black  and  very  long  beard  cut  in 
Moorish  fashion.  The  two  came  up  to  the  table  and 
sat  down. 

The  poet  and  the  other  gentleman  had  just  left  the 
last  performance,  and  were  discussing  it.  Cornejo 
thought  that  the  musical  comedy  they  had  just  seen  was 
not  altogether  bad,  the  tall  man  with  the  black  beard 
insisted  that  as  far  as  he  was  concerned  it  had  been 
superbly  wearisome.  This  gloomy  fellow  then  asserted 
that  for  him,  life  held  little  promise,  and  that  of  all  dis- 
agreeable and  irritating  lives,  the  most  irritating  and 
disagreeable  was  that  in  a  provincial  capital;  and  of  all 


PHILOSOPHERS  ^17 

the  lives  in  provincial  capitals,  the  worst  was  that  of 
Cordova. 

In  absolute  contradiction  to  Leibnitz  and  his  disciple, 
Doctor  Pangloss,  the  man  with  the  black  beard  would 
have  asserted,  with  veritable  conviction,  that  he  lived  the 
worst  life  in  the  worst  town,  in  the  worst  possible  of 
worlds. 

''You  are  right,"  said  Quentin,  with  the  honest  inten- 
tion of  molesting  his  hearers.  * '  There  is  nothing  so  anti- 
pathetic as  these  provincial  capitals." 

Don  Gil,  the  archaeologist,  made  a  gesture  of  one  who 
does  not  wish  to  heed  what  he  hears,  and  turning  to 
Springer,  said: 

"You  are  like  me,  are  you  not?  A  partisan  of  the 
antique. ' ' 

''In  many  ways,  yes,"  replied  the  Swiss. 

"Theirs  was  a  much  better  life.  How  wise  were  our 
ancestors!  Everything  classified,  everything  in  order. 
In  the  Calle  de  la  Zapatería  were  the  boot-makers;  in 
the  Calle  de  Librerías,  the  book-sellers ;  in  the  Calle  de  la 
Plata,  the  silversmiths.  Each  line  of  business  had  its 
street;  lawyers,  bankers,  advocates.  .  .  .  Today,  every- 
thing is  reversed.  A  tremendous  medley!  There  are 
scarcely  any  boot-makers  in  the  Calle  de  la  Zapatería, 
nor  are  there  any  book-sellers  in  the  Calle  de  Librerías. 
These  aediles  change  the  name  of  everything.  .  .  .  The 
Calle  de  Mucho  Trigo,  where  there  used  to  be  warehouses 
for  wheat,  today  specializes  in  making  taify.  How  ab- 
surd, Señor !  How  absurd !  And  they  call  that  prog- 
ress !  Nowadays  men  are  endeavouring  to  wipe  out  the 
memory  of  a  whole  civilization,  of  a  whole  history. ' ' 

"What  good  does  that  memory  do  you?"  asked  the 
man  with  the  black  beard. 


£18  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

''What  good  does  it  do  me!"  cried  Don  Gil  in  aston- 
ishment. 

**Yes,  what  good  does  it  do  you?" 

"Merely  to  show  us  that  we  are  decadent.  Not  com- 
paring the  Cordova  of  today  with  that  of  the  Arabian 
epoch,  but  comparing  it  with  that  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, one  sees  an  enormous  difference.  There  were  hun- 
!  dreds  of  looms  here  then,  and  factories  where  they  made 
paper,  and  buttons,  and  swords,  and  leather,  and  guitars. 
Today  ...  nothing.  Factories,  shops,  even  mansions 
have  been  closed." 

*  *  That  may  be  true ;  but,  Don  Gil,  why  do  you  want  to 
know  these  calamities?" 

' '  Why  do  I  want  to  know  them,  Escobedo  ? ' '  cried  Don 
Gil,  who  was  stupefied  by  the  questions  of  the  man  with 
the  black  beard.  J 

' '  Yes ;  I  cannot  see  what  good  that  knowledge  does. 
\lf  Cordova  disappears,  why,  another  city  will  appear. 
llt's  all  the  same!"  Escobedo  continued — "Would  that 
we  could  wipe  out  history,  and  with  it  all  the  memories 
that  sadden  and  wither  the  lives  of  men  and  multitudes ! 
One  generation  should  accept  from  the  preceding  one 
that  which  is  useful,  that  is, — mere  knowledge;  for 
example:  sugar  is  refined  in  this  manner,  .  .  .  potatoes 
are  fried  thusly.  .  .  .  Forget  the  rest.  Why  should  we 
need  them  to  say:  'this  love  you  feel,  this  pain  you 
suffer,  this  heroic  deed  you  have  witnessed,  is  nothing 
new  at  all ;  five  or  six  thousand  other  men,  exactly  like 
you,  felt  it,  suffered  it,  and  witnessed  it.  What  do  we 
gain  by  that?     Will  you  tell  me?" 

The  archaeologist  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

**I  believe  you  are  right,"  said  Quentin. 

**  History,  like  everything  else  we  have  to  learn,  ages 


1 


PHILOSOPHERS  219 

us,"  Escobedo  proceeded.  ''Knowledge  is  the  enemy 
of  felicity.  This  state  of  peace,  of  tranquillity,  which 
the  Greeks  called  with  relation  to  the  organism,  euphoria, 
and  with  relation  to  the  soul,  ataraxia,  cannot  be  at- 
tained in  any  other  way  than  by  ignorance.  Thus  at  the 
beginning  of  life,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  when  one  sees 
the  world  superficially  and  falsely,  things  appear  bril- 
liant and  worth  coveting.  The  theatre  is  relatively  fine, 
the  music  agreeable,  the  play  amusing;  but  the  evil  in- 
stinct of  learning  will  make  one  some  day  peer  from 
the  wings  and  commence  to  make  discoveries  and  be- 
come disillusioned.  One  sees  that  the  actresses  are 
ugly  .  .  ." 

''Thanks!"  interrupted  Maria  Lucena,  dryly. 

"He  doesn't  mean  you,"  Springer  assured  her. 

"And  that  besides  being  ugly,  they  are  sad,  and 
daubed  with  paint,"  continued  Escobedo,  heedless  of 
the  interruption.  "The  comedians  are  stupid,  dull, 
coarse ;  the  scenery,  seen  near  to,  is  badly  painted.  One 
sees  that  all  is  shabby,  rickety.  .  .  .  Women  seem  angels 
at  first,  then  one  thinks  them  demons,  and  little  by  little 
one  begins  to  understand  that  they  are  females,  like 
mares,  and  cows.  ...  A  little  worse,  perhaps,  on  ac- 
count of  the  human  element  in  them. ' ' 

"That's  true,"  agreed  Quentin. 

"You  are  very  indecent,"  said  Maria  Lucena,  rising 
with  an  expression  of  contempt  and  anger  upon  her 
lips.     "Adiós!     We're  going." 

The  three  women  left  the  café. 

"And  the  worst  of  it  is,"  continued  Escobedo,  "that 
they  deceive  us.  miserably.  They  speak  to  us  of  the 
efficacy  of  strength;  they  tell  us  that  we  must  struggle 
with  will  and  tenacity,  in  order  to  attain  triumph ;  and 


220         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

then  we  find  that  there  are  no  struggles,  nor  triumphs, 
nor  anything;  that  Fate  shuffles  our  destinies,  and  that 
the  essence  of  felicity  is  in  Qur  own  natures." 

* '  You  see  everything  very  black, ' '  said  the  Swiss,  smil- 
ing. 

*  *  I  think  he  sees  it  all  as  it  is, ' '  replied  Quentin. 

* '  Then  one  would  find  out, ' '  said  Escobedo, ' '  that  some 
of  the  exalted,  beautiful  things  are  not  as  sublime  as 
the  poets  say  they  are — love,  for  instance;  and  that 
other  humbler  and  more  modest  things,  which  ought  to 
be  profoundly  real,  are  not  so  at  all. 

"Friendship!  There  is  no  such  thing  as  friendship 
except  when  two  friends  sacrifice  themselves  for  each 
other.  Sincerity!  That,  too,  is  impossible.  I  do  not 
believe  that  one  can  be  sincere  even  in  solitude.  Great 
and  small,  illustrious  and  humble,  every  individual  who 
gazes  into  a  mirror  will  always  see  in  the  glass  the  re- 
flection of  a  pretender." 

**I'm  with  you,"  said  Quentin. 

**I  believe,"  declared  the  Swiss,  "that  you  only  look 
upon  the  dark  side  of  things." 

'  *  I  force  myself  to  see  both  sides, ' '  responded  Escobedo 
— "the  bright  as  well  as  the  dark.  I  believe  that  in 
every  deed,  in  every  man,  there  is  both  light  and  dark- 
ness ;  also  that  there  is  almost  always  one  side  that  is  se- 
rious and  tragic,  and  another  that  is  mocking  and  gro- 
tesque." 

"And  what  good  does  that  do  you?"  asked  Don  Gil. 

"A  whole  lot.  From  a  funereal  and  lachrymose  indi- 
vidual, I  am  metamorphosing  myself  into  a  jolly  mis- 
anthrope. By  the  time  I  reach  old  age,  I  expect  to  be 
as  jolly  as  a  pair  of  castanets." 

*  *  Greek  philosophy ! ' '  said  Don  Gil  contemptuously. 


PHILOSOPHERS  «21 

** Señor  Sabadla,"  replied  Escobedo,  ''you  have  the 
I  right  to  bother  us  all  with  your  talk  about  the  signs  on 
!  the  streets  of  Cordova,  and  about  the  customs  of  our 
respectable  ancestors.     Kindly  grant  us  permission  to 
comment  upon  life  in  our  own  fashion." 
"Eisum  teneatis/'  said  Don  Gil. 
*  *  Do  you  see  ? "  continued  Escobedo — ' '  That 's  another 
thing  that  bothers  me.    Why  does  Don  Gil  have  to  thrust 
at  us  a  quotation  so  common  that  even  the  waiters  in 
the  café  know  it?" 
É|>  The   archaeologist,    not   deigning   to    notice    this    re- 
'inark,   commenced  to  recite   an  ancient   Cordovese   ro- 
mance that  went: 


I 


Jueves,  era  jueves, 
día  de  mercado, 
y  en  Santa  Marina 
tocaban  rehato. 


(Thursday,  it  was  Thursday,  Market  Day,  and  in  the  Church 
of  Santa  Marina  they  rang  the  call  to  arms.) 

Escobedo  went  on  philosophising ;  a  waiter  in  the  café 
began  to  pile  the  chairs  upon  the  tables ;  another  put  out 
the  gas,  and  the  customers  went  out  into  the  street. 


I' 


CHAPTER  XXI 

JUAN   TALKS 

THE  afternoon  of  the  following  day,  Quentin 
went  to  the  Calle  del  Sol  to  see  his  grand- 
father, according  to  his  promise  to  Rafaela. 
There  was  a  carriage  at  the  door.  Juan,  with  his  hat 
in  his  hand,  was  talking  to  an  elegant  lady  with  black 
eyes. 

**Do  you  mean  to  say  I  cannot  go  in?"  said  she  un- 
pleasantly. 

''The  Señoritas  have  told  me  that  they  were  not  at 
home  to  any  one."  e 

''Not  even  to  me?"  ^       | 

"Those  are  my  orders." 

"Very  well.     I  shall  wait  until  my  husband  comes." 

"It  will  be  useless,"  said  Juan  emphatically. 

"Why?"  asked  she  haughtily. 

"Because  the  Señor  Marqués  told  me  that  he  does  not 
wish  to  see  you." 

The  woman  made  no  reply.  I 

' '  Home ! ' '  she  said  to  the  coachman  angrily. 

Quentin  went  up  to  Juan. 

"What's  up?     May  I  not  come  in?"  he  asked. 

"You  may,  of  course,"  replied  the  gardener,  "but  not 
that  designing  hussy." 

"Who  is  she?" 

"The  Countess.    After  saying  all  sorts  of  monstrous 

222 


I 


JUAN  TALKS  223 


things  about  Rafaela  and  her  grandfather,  the  hussy 
comes  here  to  boast  of  her  charity." 

^'How  is  the  Señor  Marqués?" 

''Very  bad." 

''Has  his  illness  been  aggravated,  or  is  it  following 
its  natural  course?" 

"It  has  been  aggravated.  .  .  .  And  meanwhile,  the 
Count — do  you  know  what  he's  doing?  Well,  he's  sell- 
ing everything  he  can  lay  his  hands  on.  He's  even 
sold  the  lead  pipes  and  the  paving  stones  in  the  stable, 
which  he  tore  up  with  his  own  hands.  I  tell  you  it's  a 
shame.  ..." 

"Why  don't  they  stop  him?" 

"Who  is  there  to  do  it?  It's  very  sad.  While  the 
master  is  in  bed,  the  second-hand  men  come  and  cart 
ever>i:hing  away.  They've  removed  tapestries,  bronzes, 
the  gilt  writing-desks  that  were  in  the  hall,  the  side- 
board, the  dressing  tables  .  .  .  and  that  shrewd  female, 
who  knows  all  about  the  business,  wants  to  come  and 
take  part  in  the  robbery.  One  can  say  nothing  to  the 
Count;  but  to  that  wicked  woman,  it's  different.  If 
you  could  see  her!  I  don't  see  how  she  dares  look  at 
me  after  what  has  happened  between  us." 

"Between  whom?     You  and  her?" 

"Si,  Señor.     Have  they  never  told  you?" 

"No." 

"Well,  you  know  I  have  a  son,  who,  though  not  so 
much  to  look  at  now,  was  several  years  ago  a  very  beauti- 
ful child,  whiter  than  snow,  and  with  a  pair  of  cheeks 
just  bursting  with  blood.  Moreover,  he  was  strong, 
healthy,  and  veiy  innocent.  Well,  pretty  soon  the  lad 
began  to  get  pale,  and  thin,  and  black  circles  appeared 
under  his  eyes.     His  mother  and  I  wondered  what  was 


2S4  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

the  matter  with  him,  and  what  his  trouble  was.  But 
it  was  useless ;  we  were  unable  to  understand  what  was 
going  on,  until  one  night  the  coachman  saw  him  climbing 
about  the  roof.  The  man  hid  himself  and  found  out 
everything.  At  that  time  the  Countess  lived  here  with 
her  husband,  and  my  son  was  on  his  way  to  her.  When 
I  told  the  Marquis  what  was  happening,  he  went  and 
loaded  a  pistol,  and  was  for  shooting  his  daughter-in- 
law.  But  she,  the  shrewd  thing,  came  to  me  and  said: 
*If  you  need  anything  for  your  son,  let  me  know.' — 
'Señora,'  I  answered,  'you  are  a  very  vicious  woman, 
and  my  son  shall  never  see  you  again.'  " 

' '  Whom  is  she  living  with  now  ? ' ' 

''With  Periquito  Gálvez." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"A  rich  farmer." 

"Young?" 

"  No ;  he 's  over  fifty.  But  she  would  take  to  any  one. 
When  he  came  to  an  understanding  with  her,  they  say 
that  one  day  he  found  one  of  the  Countess'  garters, 
which  had  a  little  sign  on  it  that  read : 

Intrépido  es  amor; 
de  todo  sale  vencedor. 

(Love  is  fearless;  it  conquers  all  obstacles.) 

"Periquito  had  a  pair  of  garters  made  just  like  it, 
with  letters  of  diamonds  and  pearls,  which  he  gave  to 
her." 

"How  magnificent!" 

"It  certainly  was." 

Quentin  left  Juan,  and  went  up  to  see  the  sick  man. 

In  a  drawing-room  near  the  bedroom,  Rafaela  and 
Remedios  were  talking  to  a  thin,  graceful,  very  polished- 


JUAN  TALKS  225 


looking  gentleman.  It  was  El  Polio  Real,  brother  of  the 
Marquis  and  of  Señora  Patrocinio.  From  time  to  time 
Colmenares,  the  hunchback,  came  out  of  the  bedroom 
red-eyed,  only  to  go  back  again  immediately. 

''I  am  going  to  pray  at  the  hermitage  of  La  Fuen- 
santa," said  Remedios  to  Quentin.  ''Do  you  wish  to 
come  with  me?" 

Remedios,  her  young  maid-servant,  and  Quentin  left 
the  house  as  evening  fell. 

The  two  women  said  their  prayers,  and  then  Remedios 
and  Quentin  returned  chatting  from  the  hermitage. 
Remedios  told  Quentin  that  some  of  her  stepmother's 
invectives  had  reached  Rafaela  's  ears,  and  Quentin  prom- 
ised the  girl  that  he  would  silence  the  Countess.  He 
thought  of  dedicating  a  few  stings  to  her  in  La  Vihora 
which  might  mortify  her.  Then  Remedios  spoke  of  her 
brother-in-law.  She  felt  a  strong  antipathy  for  him,  and, 
while  realizing  that  he  was  good  and  amiable,  she  could 
not  bear  him. 

To  prolong  the  conversation,  they  took  the  longest  way 
home. 

It  was  an  autumn  day  with  a  deep  blue  sky.  - 

In  the  west,  long,  narrow  clouds  tinged  with  red, 
floated  one  above  the  other  in  several  strata.  They 
walked  by  the  Church  of  San  Lorenzo.  The  square 
tower  rose  before  them  with  its  angel  figure  on  the 
point  of  the  roof;  the  great  rose-window,  lit  by  the 
rosy  hue  of  late  afternoon,  seemed  some  ethereal,  in- 
corporeal thing,  and  above  the  rosette,  a  white  figure  of 
a  saint  stood  out  against  a  vaulted  niche. 

They  returned  by  the  Calle  de  Santa  María  de  Gracia. 
Remedios  read  the  signs  on  the  stores  as  she  passed 
them,  and  the  names  of  the  streets.     One  of  these  was 


226  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

called  Puchinelas,  another,  Juan  Palo,  another  El  Ver- 
dugo. .  .  . 

A  lot  of  questions  suggested  themselves  to  the  child, 
to  which  Quentin  did  not  know  how  to  reply. 

They  went  along  the  Calle  de  Santa  María.  Over- 
head, the  rosy  sky  showed  between  the  two  broken  lines 
of  roofs;  the  water  pipes  stuck  into  the  air  from  the 
eaves  like  the  gargoyles  and  cantilevers  of  a  Gothic 
church ;  the  houses  were  bathed  in  a  mysterious 
light.  .  .  . 

Against  the  white  walls  of  an  ancient  convent  with 
tall  Venetian  blinds,  the  scarlet  splendour  of  the  sky 
quivered  gently;  and  in  the  distance,  at  the  end  of  the 
street,  the  hoary  tower  of  a  church,  as  it  received  the 
last  rays  of  the  sun,  shone  like  a  red-hot  coal. 

When  they  reached  the  house,  the  sky  was  already 
beginning  to  lose  its  blood-red  colour;  a  veil  of  pale 
yellow  opal  invaded  the  whole  celestial  vault ;  toward  the 
west  it  was  green,  to  the  east,  it  was  blue,  an  intense 
blue,  with  great,  purple  bands.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXII 

STICKS,   SHOTS,   AND   STONES 

THAT  night,  Quentin  went  to  look  for  Cornejo 
at  the  print-shop  where  La  Víbora  was  pub- 
lished. 

The  shop  was  situated  in  a  cellar,  and  contained  a 
very  antique  press,  which  took  a  whole  day  to  print  its 
fifteen  hundred  copies. 

**For  the  next  number,"  said  Quentin  to  the  poet, 
"you've  got  to  make  up  a  poisonous  poem  in  the  same 
style  as  those  that  have  been  published  against  the 
Alguacil  Ventosilla,  Padre  Tumbón,  and  La  Garduña. ' ' 

* '  Good.    Against  whom  is  it  to  be  ? " 

' '  La  Aceitunera. ' ' 

''The  Countess?" 

''Yes." 

' '  The  devil !     Isn  't  she  a  relative  of  yours  ? ' ' 

"Yes;  on  the  left  hand  side." 

' '  Let 's  have  it.     What  must  I  say  ?  " 

"You  already  know  that  they  call  her  La  Aceitunera?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  also  know  that  she  has  no  morals  to  boast 
of?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  with  that  you've  got  it  all  made.  As  a  sort 
of  refrain  to  your  poem,  you  may  use  the  quotation  she 
wears  on  her  garters;  it  goes  like  this: 

227 


^m         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Intrépido  es  amor; 
de  todo  sale  vencedor. 

"Very  good;  but  give  me  an  idea." 

**Do  you  need  still  more?  You  can  begin  with  a 
poetic  invocation,  asking  every  crib  in  Cordova  who  the 
lady  of  such  and  such  a  description  is;  then  give  hers; 
including  the  fact  that  she  wears  garters  with  this 
motto  engraved  upon  them : 

Intrépido  es  amor; 
de  todo  sale  vencedor." 

"Good!     For  example:  I'll  say  that  she  has  black 
eyes,  and  a  wonderful  pair  of  hips,  and — " 
"An  olive  complexion." 
*  *  And  an  olive  complexion  .  .  .  and  1 11  finish  up  with : 

Y  ésta  leyenda  escrita  en  la  ancha  liga, 
'  que  tantos  vieron  con  igual  fatiga : 


Intrépido  es  amor; 
de  todo  sale  vencedor. 
(And   this   legend   written    upon   her    broad   garter,   which    so 
vmany  men  tave  seen  with  the  same  feeling  of  fatigue:   etc.) 


"Eh?     How's  that?" 
"Very  good." 


*  *  All  right,  it  won 't  take  a  minute  to  finish  it.  What 
shall  I  call  the  poem?" 

"To  La  Aceitunera.*' 

"It's  done.  How  would  you  like  me  to  begin  like 
this?: 

Casas  de  la  Morería; 

Trascastillo  y  Murallón, 

ninfas,  dueñas,  y  tarascas, 

baratilleras  de  amor. 


STICKS,  SHOTS,  AND  STONES  229 

(Houses  of  La  Morería,  Traseastillo  and  Murallon;  nymphs, 
mistresses,  and  lewd  women,  second-hand  dealers  in  love.)" 

''You  may  begin  as  you  wish.  The  idea  is  that  the 
thing  must  hurt. ' ' 

"It'll  hurt,  all  right;  never  fear." 

Cornejo  finished  the  poem;  two  days  later  the  paper 
came  out,  and  in  cafés  and  casinos,  the  only  subject  of 
conversation  was  the  Countess'  garters,  and  everybody 
maliciously  repeated  the  refrain: 

r.  Intrépido  es  amor; 

í  de  todo  sale  vencedor. 

The  following  night,  Quentin  was  waiting  for  the  poet 
in  the  Café  del  Recreo.  He  had  made  an  appointment 
with  him  for  ten  o'clock,  but  Cornejo  had  failed  to  ap- 
pear. 

Quentin  waited  for  him  for  over  two  hours,  and  finally, 
tired  out,  he  started  to  go  home.     As  he  left  the  café, 
a  little  man  wrapped  in  a  cloak  came  up  to  him  at  the 
very  door. 
É       "Listen  to  me  a  second,"  he  said. 
"        "Eh!" 

"Be  very  careful,  Don  Quentin,  they  are  following 
you. ' ' 

"Met" 

"Si,  Señor." 

"Who  are  you?    Let's  hear  first  who  you  are." 
I        "I  am  Carrahola." 

^        "Aren't  you  angry  at  me  for  what  I  did  to  you  the 
other  night?"    . 

"No,  Señor,  you're  a  brave  fellow." 

"Thanks." 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

**Well,  Señor  José  has  sent  Cantarote,  the  gipsy,  and 
me  to  go  home  with  you. ' ' 

"Bah!     No  one  interferes  with  me." 

''Don't  say  what  you  know  nothing  about.  Take  this 
club" — and  he  gave  him  one  which  he  had  concealed 
under  his  cloak — ' '  and  walk  on. ' ' 

** Aren't  you  armed,  Carrahola?" 

' '  I  ? —  Look ! ' ' — and  lifting  aside  his  cloak,  he  showed 
his  sash,  which  was  filled  with  stones. 

Quentin  took  the  club,  wrapped  himself  up  to  his 
eyes  in  his  cloak,  and  began  to  walk  slowly  along  the 
middle  of  the  street,  looking  carefully  before  passing 
cross-streets  and  comers.  When  he  reached  one  corner, 
he  saw  two  men  standing  in  the  doorway  of  a  convent, 
and  two  others  directly  opposite.  No  sooner  had  he 
perceived  them,  than  he  stopped,  went  to  a  doorway,  took 
off  his  cloak  and  wrapped  it  about  his  left  arm,  and 
grasped  the  club  with  his  right  hand. 

When  the  four  men  saw  a  man  hiding  himself,  they 
supposed  that  it  was  Quentin,  and  rushed  toward  him. 
Quentin  parried  two  or  three  blows  with  his  left  arm. 

' '  Evohé !  Evohé ! "  he  cried ;  and  an  instant  later  be- 
gan to  rain  blow  after  blow  about  him  with  his  club, 
with  such  vigour,  that  he  forced  his  attackers  to  retreat. 
In  one  of  his  flourishes,  he  struck  an  adversary  on  the 
head,  and  his  club  flew  to  pieces.  The  tnan  turned  and 
fell  headlong  to  the  ground,  like  a  grain-sack. 

Carrahola  and  Cantarote  came  running  to  the  scene 
of  the  fray;  one  throwing  stones,  the  other  waving  a 
knife  as  long  as  a  bayonet. 

Carrahola  hit  one  of  the  men  in  the  face  with  a  stone, 
and  left  him  bleeding  profusely.  Of  the  three  who  were 
left  comparatively  sound,  two  took  to  their  heels,  while 


STICKS,  SHOTS,  AND  STONES  ^1 

the  strongest,  the  one  who  seemed  to  be  the  leader  of 
the  gang,  was  engaged  in  a  fist  fight  with  Quentin.  The 
latter,  who  was  an  adept  in  the  art  of  boxing,  of  which 
the  other  was  totally  ignorant,  thrust  his  fist  between 
his  adversary's  arms,  and  gave  him  such  a  blow  upon 
the  chin,  that  he  fell  backward  and  would  have  broken 
his  neck,  had  he  not  stumbled  against  a  wall.  As  the 
man  fell,  he  drew  a  pistol  from  his  pocket  and  fired. 

'^Gentlemen,"  said  Quentin  to  Carrahola  and  Can- 
tarote;  **to  your  homes,  and  let  him  save  himself  who 
can!" 

Each  began  to  run,  and  the  three  men  escaped  through 
the  narrow  alleyways. 

The  next  afternoon  Quentin  went  to  the  Casino.  The 
newspapers  spoke  of  the  battle  of  the  day  before  as  an 
epic;  a  ruffian  known  as  El  Mochuelo,  had  been  found 
in  the  street  with  concussion  of  the  brain,  and  a  con- 
tusion on  his  head;  besides  this,  there  were  pools  of 
blood  in  the  street.  According  to  the  newspaper  re- 
ports, passions  had  been  at  a  white  heat.  Immediately 
after  the  description  of  the  fight,  followed  the  news  that 
the  notable  poet  Cornejo  had  been  a  victim  of  an  attack 
by  persons  unknown. 

''They  must  have  beaten  him  badly,"  thought  Quen- 
tin. 

He  went  to  Cornejo 's  house  and  found  him  in  bed,  his 
head  covered  with  bandages,  and  smelling  of  arnica. 

''What's  the  matter?"  asked  Quentin. 

"Can't  you  see?  They  gave  me  the  devil  of  a  beat- 
ing!"      . 

' '  They  tried  to  do  it  to  me  yesterday,  but  I  knocked  a 
few  of  them  down." 

' '  Well,  don 't  be  overconfident. ' ' 


g3á         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

**No,  I'm  not;  I  carry  a  pistol  in  each  pocket,  and  I 
can't  tell  you  what  would  happen  to  the  man  who  comes 
near  me." 

*  *  It 's  a  bad  situation. ' ' 

**Ca,  man!     There's  nothing  to  be  frightened  about." 

**You  can  do  as  you  like,  but  I'm  not  going  out  until 
I'm  well;  nor  will  I  write  for  La  Yxhora  any  more." 

**Very  well.     Do  as  you  wish." 

"I've  got  to  live." 

"Psh !  I  don't  see  why,"  replied  Quentin  contemptu- 
ously. Then  he  added,  ''See  here,  my  lad,  if  this  busi- 
ness scares  you,  take  up  sewing  on  a  machine.  Per- 
haps you'll  earn  more."  .  .  .  And  leaving  the  poet, 
Quentin  returned  to  the  Casino.  He  was  the  man  of  the 
hour;  he  related  his  adventure  again  and  again,  and  in 
order  that  the  same  thing  might  not  be  repeated  that 
night,  a  group  of  eight  or  ten  of  his  friends  accompanied 
him  to  his  house. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

PURSUIT   AND   ESCAPE 

OUENTIN  was  worried,  and  in  spite  of  his  two 
pistols  and  the  sword-cane  that  he  carried,  he 
feared  that  the  first  chance  they  got,  they  would 
set  a  trap  for  him  and  leave  him  in  the  same  condition 
as  they  had  left  Cornejo. 

He  was  very  mistrustful  of  Maria  Lucena,  because  she 
was  beginning  to  hate  him  and  was  capable  of  doing 
him  almost  any  ill  turn. 

Some  two  weeks  after  the  nocturnal  attack,  Quentin 
went  to  the  Café  del  Recreo.  As  he  was  learning  to  be 
very  cautious,  before  entering  he  looked  through  a  win- 
dow and  saw  Maria  Lucena  talking  to  an  elegantly- 
dressed  gentleman.  He  waited  a  moment,  and  when  a 
waiter  went  by,  he  said  to  him: 

*'See  here,  who  is  that  gentleman  there?'* 

*'The  clean-shaven  one  dressed  in  black?'* 

**Yes." 

''Señor  Calvez." 

''Periquito  Calvez?" 

"Sí,  Señor." 

Quentin  entered  the  café  and  pretended  not  to  see  the 
fellow.  He  noticed  that  Maria  Lucena  was  more  pleas- 
ant to  him  than  ever  before. 

"There's  something  up,"  he  said  to  himself.  "They 
are  getting  something  ready  for  me." 

233 


2S4f         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET f 

Quentin  was  not  jealous,  he  was  already  very  tired  of 
Maria  Lucena,  and  if  any  one  had  made  off  with  her, 
he  would  have  thanked  him  rather  than  otherwise. 

** Between  the  two  of  them,"  thought  Quentin,  refer- 
ring to  Gálvez  and  Maria,  ''they  are  plotting  something 
against  me." 

Presently,  Quentin  got  up,  and  left  the  café  without 
even  nodding  to  Maria.  I 

*'I'm  going  to  see  Pacheco,"  he  murmured. 

He  was  going  along  the  Calle  del  Arco  Real,  when  he 
looked  back  and  saw  two  men  following  him.  1 

''Devil  take  you,"  he  remarked,  seizing  a  pistol. 

He  raised  the  muffler  of  his  cloak,  and  began  to  walk 
very  rapidly.  It  was  a  cold,  disagreeable  night;  the 
crescent  moon  shone  fitfully  from  behind  the  huge  clouds 
that  were  passing  over  it.  Quentin  tried  to  shake  off  his 
pursuers  by  gliding  rapidly  through  tortuous  alleyways, 
but  the  two  men  were  doubtless  well  acquainted^  with  the 
twists  and  turns  of  the  city,  for  if  he  happened  to  lose 
them  for  an  instant,  he  soon  saw  them  behind  him  again. 

After  a  half -hour's  chase,  Quentin  noticed  that  there 
were  no  longer  only  two  pursuers,  but  four  of  them,  and 
that  with  them  was  a  watchman.  Presently  there  were 
six  of  them. 

He  sought  safety  in  his  legs,  and  began  to  run  like  a 
deer.  He  came  out  opposite  the  Mosque,  went  down  by 
the  Triunfo  Column,  through  the  Puerta  Romana,  and 
along  the  bridge  until  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  tower  of 
La  Calahorra.  Everywhere  he  heard  the  whistles  of  the 
watchmen. 

At  the  exit  of  the  bridge,  there  were  a  couple  of 
guardias  civües.  Perhaps  they  were  not  warned  of  his 
flight ;  but  suppose  they  were  1  4 


PURSUIT  AND  ESCAPE  235 

Quentin  retreated.  From  the  bridge  he  could  see  the 
Cathedral,  and  the  black  wall  of  the  Mosque,  whose  bat- 
tlements were  outlined  against  the  sky. 

A  vapour  arose  from  the  river;  below  him  the  dark 
water  was  boiling  against  the  arches  of  the  bridge ;  in  the 
distance  it  looked  like  quicksilver,  and  the  houses  on  the 
Calle  de  la  Eibera  were  reflected  trembling  on  its  sur- 
face. 

As  he  turned  toward  the  city,  Quentin  saw  his  pursuers 
at  the  bridge  entrance. 

* '  They  've  trapped  me ! "  he  exclaimed  in  a  rage. 

They  were  evidently  reconnoitering  the  bridge  on  both 
sides,  for  the  watchman's  lantern  oscillated  from  left 
to  right,  and  from  right  to  left. 

Quentin  crept  toward  one  of  the  vaulted  niches  in  the 
middle  of  the  bridge. 

' '  Shall  I  get  in  there  ?  They  will  find  that  easier  than 
anything  else.     What  shall  I  do ?' ' 

To  throw  himself  into  the  river  was  too  dangerous.  To 
attack  his  pursuers  was  absurd. 

As  if  to  add  to  his  misfortunes,  the  moon  was  coming 
from  behind  the  cloud  that  had  hidden  it,  and  was  shed- 
ding its  light  over  the  bridge.  Quentin  climbed  into 
the  niche. 

What  irritated  him  most  was  being  made  prisoner  in 
such  a  stupid  way.  He  did  not  fear  prison,  but  rather 
the  loss  of  prestige  with  the  people.  Those  who  had  been 
enthusiastic  over  his  deeds,  when  they  learned  that  he 
had  been  made  prisoner,  would  begin  to  look  upon  him 
as  a  common,  everyday  person,  and  that  did  not  suit 
him  in  the  least: 

*'I  must  do  something  .  .  .  anything.  What  can  I 
do?'' 


2S6         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

To  face  his  pursuers  with  his  pistol  from  the  niche 
would  be  gallant,  but  it  would  mean  exposing  himself  to 
death,  or  going  to  prison. 

Turning  about  in  the  niche,  Quentin  stumbled  over  a 
huge  rock. 

''Let  me  see.    We'll  try  a  little  fake." 

He  removed  his  cloak  and  wrapped  the  stone  in  it, 
making  a  sort  of  dummy.  Then  he  took  the  bundle  in  his 
arms  and  stepped  to  the  railing  of  the  bridge. 

' '  There  he  is !     There  he  is ! "  shouted  his  pursuers. 

Quentin  tip;ped  the  dummy  toward  the  river. 

"  He 's  going  to  jump ! ' ' 

Quentin  gave  a  loud  shout,  and  pushed  the  stone 
wrapped  in  the  cloak  into  the  water,  where  it  splashed 
noisily.  This  done,  he  jumped  back ;  and  then,  on  hands 
and  knees,  returned  quickly  to  his  niche,  climbed  into  it, 
and  pressed  himself  against  the  inside  wall. 

His  pursuers  ran  by  the  niches  without  looking  into 
either  of  them. 

"How  awful!"  said  one  of  the  men. 

**I  can't  see  him." 

''I  think  I  can." 

''Let's  go  to  the  mill  at  El  Medio,"  said  one  who 
appeared  to  be  the  leader.  "There  ought  to  be  a  boat 
there.    "Watchman,  you  stay  here. ' ' 

Quentin  heard  this  conversation,  trembling  in  his  hole ; 
he  listened  to  their  footsteps,  and  when  they  grew  fainter 
in  the  distance,  he  got  up  and  looked  through  a  narrow 
loophole  that  was  cut  in  the  niche.  The  watchman  had 
placed  his  lamp  upon  the  railing  of  the  bridge,  and  was 
looking  into  the  river. 

' '  I  have  no  time  to  lose, ' '  murmured  Quentin. 

Quickly  he  took  off  his  tie  and  his  kerchief,  jumped  to 


PURSUIT  AND  ESCAPE  237 

the  bridge  without  making  the  slightest  noise,  and  crept 
toward  the  watchman.  Simultaneously  one  hand  fell 
upon  the  watcher's  neck,  and  the  other  upon  his  mouth. 

'*If  you  call  out,  I'll  throw  you  into  the  river,"  said 
Quentin  in  a  low  voice. 

The  man  scarcely  breathed  from  fright.  Quentin 
gagged  him  with  the  handkerchief,  then  tied  his  hands 
behind  him,  took  off  his  cap,  placed  his  own  hat  upon 
the  watchman's  head,  and  carrying  him  like  a  baby, 
thrust  him  into  the  niche. 

**If  you  try  to  get  out  of  there,  you're  a  dead  man,*' 
said  Quentin. 

This  done,  he  put  on  the  watchman's  hat,  seized  his 
pike  and  lantern,  and  walked  slowly  toward  the  bridge 
gate. 

There  were  two  men  there,  members  of  the  guardia 
civil. 

''There!  There  he  goes,"  Quentin  said  to  them, 
pointing  toward  the  meadow  of  El  Corregidor. 

The  two  men  began  to  run  in  the  indicated  direction. 
Quentin  went  through  the  bridge  gate,  threw  the  lantern 
and  the  pike  to  the  ground,  and  began  to  run  desperately. 
He  kept  hearing  the  whistles  of  the  watchmen ;  when  he 
saw  a  lantern,  he  slipped  through  some  alley  and  fairly 
flew  along.  At  last  he  was  able  to  reach  El  Cuervo's 
tavern,  where  he  knocked  frantically  upon  the  door. 

''Who  is  it?"  came  from  within. 

"I,  Quentin.     They're  chasing  me.'* 

El  Cuervo  opened  the  door,  and  lifted  his  lantern  to 
Quentin 's  face  to  make  sure  of  his  identity. 

"All  right.     Come  in.     Take  the  light." 

Quentin  took  the  lantern,  and  the  innkeeper  slid  a 
couple  of  formidable-looking  bolts  into  place. 


238         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

**Now  give  me  the  lantern,  and  follow  me." 

El  Cuervo  crossed  the  tavern,  came  out  into  a  dirty 
courtyard,  opened  a  little  door,  and,  followed  by  Quentin, 
began  to  climb  a  narrow  stairway  which  was  decorated 
with  cobwebs.  They  must  have  reached  the  height  of 
the  second  story  when  the  innkeeper  stopped,  fastened  the 
lantern  to  a  beam  on  the  wall,  and  holding  on  to  some 
beam  ends  that  were  sticking  from  the  wall,  climbed  up 
to  a  high  garret. 

''Let  me  have  the  lantern,"  said  El  Cuervo. 

''Here  it  is." 

"Now,  you  come  up." 

The  garret  was  littered  with  laths  and  rubbish.  El 
Cuervo,  crouching  low,  went  to  one  end  of  it,  where  he 
put  out  the  light,  slid  between  two  beams  that  scarcely 
looked  as  if  they  would  permit  the  passage  of  a  man,  and 
disappeared.  Quentin,  not  without  a  great  eifort,  did 
the  same,  and  found  himself  upon  the  ridge  of  a  roof. 

"Do  you  see  that  garret?"  said  El  Cuervo. 

"Yes." 

"Well,  go  over  to  it,  keeping  always  on  this  side ;  push 
the  window,  which  will  give  way,  and  enter;  go  down 
four  or  five  steps ;  find  a  door ;  open  it  with  this  key,  and 
you  will  be  in  your  room — safer  than  the  King  of  Spain. ' ' 

"How  about  getting  out?" 

"You  will  be  notified." 

"And  eating?" 

"Your  meals  will  be  sent  to  you.  When  Señor  José 
gets  back,  he  '11  come  to  see  you. ' ' 

' '  Good ;  give  me  the  key. ' ' 

' '  Here  it  is.    Adiós,  and  good  luck. ' ' 

The   innkeeper   disappeared   whence   he   had    come. 


PURSUIT  AND  ESCAPE  239 

Quentin,  following  the  example  of  a  cat,  went  tearing 
across  the  tiles. 

From  that  height  he  could  see  the  city,  caressed  by  the 
silver  light  of  the  moon.  Through  the  silence  of  the 
night  came  the  murmuring  of  the  river.  In  the  back- 
ground, far  above  the  roofs  of  the  town,  he  could  make 
out  the  dark  shadow  of  Sierra  Morena,  with  its  white 
orchards  bathed  in  the  bluish  light,  its  great  bulk 
silhouetted  against  the  sky,  and  veiled  by  a  light  mist. 

Quentin  reached  the  attic,  pushed  open  the  window, 
descended  the  stairs  as  he  had  been  told,  opened  the 
door,  lit  a  match,  and  had  scarcely  done  so  when  he  heard 
a  shriek  of  terror.  Quentin  dropped  the  match  in  his 
fright.     There  was  some  one  in  the  garret! 

''Who's  there?"  he  asked. 

''Oh,  sir,"  replied  a  cracked  voice,  "for  God's  sake 
don 't  harm  me. ' ' 

When  Quentin  saw  that  he  was  being  begged  for  help, 
he  realized  that  there  was  no  danger,  so  he  lit  another 
match,  and  with  it,  a  lamp.  By  the  light  of  this,  he  saw 
a  woman  sitting  up  in  a  bed,  her  head  covered  with  curl- 
papers. 

' '  Have  no  fear.  Señora, ' '  said  Quentin ;  "  I  must  have 
made  a  mistake  and  entered  the  wrong  room." 

"Well,  if  that  is  the  case,  why  don't  you  go?" 

' '  The  fact  is,  I  'm  surprised  that  it  should  be  so.  This 
was  the  only  garret  in  the  roof.  Would  you  like  an  ex- 
planation? El  Cuervo,  the  landlord  of  yonder  corner 
tavern,  told  me  to  come  here ;  that  this  was  his  garret." 

"Well,  I  came  here  because  José  Pacheco  brought  me." 

"Pacheco?"  " 

"Yes." 


«40         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

''Then,  this  is  the  right  garret." 

''Do  you  know  Pacheco?"  asked  the  woman. 

"He  is  a  good  friend  of  mine.  Do  you  know  him 
too?" 

"Yes,  sir.  He  is  my  lover,"  sighed  the  woman. 
Quentin  felt  an  overpowering  desire  to  laugh. 

"Then,  my  lady,"  he  said,  "I  am  very  sorry,  but  I 
am  pursued  by  the  police,  and  cannot  leave  this  place." 

' '  Nor  can  I,  my  good  sir,  permit  you  to  remain  in  my 
bedroom. ' ' 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"Go  and  sleep  outside." 

"Where?  Upon  the  roof?  You  don't  know  what 
kind  of  a  night  it  is. ' ' 

' '  You  are  not  very  gallant.  Señor. ' ' 

"Pneumonia  would  be  less  gallant  with  me.  Señora." 

"Do  you  think  that  I  am  going  to  allow  you  to  remain 
in  this  room  all  night  ? ' ' 

' '  See  here,  Señora,  I  'm  not  by  any  means  trying  to  vio- 
late you.  Allow  me  to  take  a  mattress,  and  stretch  out 
upon  the  floor." 

' '  Impossible. ' ' 

"If  you  are  afraid,  leave  the  lamp  lit.  Furthermore, 
for  your  better  tranquillity,  and  as  a  means  of  defence 
for  your  honour,  I  hand  you  these  two  pistols.  They 
are  loaded,"  said  Quentin,  as  he  cautiously  unloaded 
them. 

"Very  well,  then;  I  agree,"  replied  the  woman. 

Quentin  took  a  mattress,  spread  it  upon  the  floor,  and 
threw  himself  upon  it. 

' '  Woe  unto  you.  Señor, '  *  said  the  woman  in  a  terrible 
voice, ' '  if  you  dare  to  take  any  undue  liberties. '  * 

Quentin,  who  was  tired,  began  in  a  very  few  minutes 


PURSUIT  AND  ESCAPE  241 

to  snore  like  a  water-carrier.  The  woman  sat  up  in  bed 
and  scrutinized  him  closely. 

' '  Oh !     What  an  unpoetic  person ! ' '  she  murmured. 

When  Quentin  awoke  and  found  himself  in  the  room, 
where  a  ray  of  light  poured  in  through  a  high,  closed 
window,  he  got  up  to  open  it.  The  poetic  woman  at  that 
moment  was  snoring,  with  a  pistol  clasped  in  her  fingers. 

Quentin  opened  the  window,  and  as  he  did  so,  he  dis- 
covered that  a  cord  was  attached  to  the  window  lock.  He 
jerked  it,  found  that  it  was  heavy,  and  pulled  it  toward 
him  until  a  covered  basket  appeared. 

''Here's  breakfast,"  announced  Quentin. 

And  sure  enough ;  inside  was  a  roast  chicken,  bread,  a 
bottle  of  wine,  and  rolled  in  the  napkin,  a  paper  upon 
which  was  written  in  huge  letters : 

**Do  not  come  out;  they  are  still  hanging  around  the 
street. '  * 

Quentin  threw  the  basket  out  of  the  window,  and  low- 
ered it  the  full  length  of  the  string.  He  was  preparing 
to  eat  his  breakfast  with  a  good  appetite,  when  the 
woman  opened  her  eyes. 

* '  Good  morning.  Señora, ' '  said  Quentin.  ' '  They  have 
sent  me  my  breakfast.  I  '11  treat  if  you  wish.  I  '11  go  out 
for  a  stroll  on  the  roof,  and  meanwhile,  you  can  be 
dressing  yourself.  Then,  if  you  would  like  to  heat  the 
food  .  .  ." 

' '  Oh,  no.     No  cooking, ' '  replied  she.     ' '  I  feel  very  ill. ' ' 

**Well,  then;  we'll  eat  the  chicken  cold." 

Quentin  went  out  on  the  roof.  He  took  out  his  pencil 
and  notebook,  and  busied  himself  writing  an  article  for 
La  Víbora. 

When  he  had  finished,  he  went  back  to  the  garret. 

*'I'm  not  dressed  yet,"  said  the  woman. 


242         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Quentin  returned  to  the  roof ;  wrote  two  selections  for 
the  paper,  one  insulting  the  Government  and  the  other 
the  Mayor;  then  he  crawled  about  the  roof.  On  an 
azotea  some  distance  away,  a  girl  was  arranging  some 
flower  pots.  Probably  she  was  pretty.  .  .  .  Quentin 
drew  near  to  watch  her. 

He  was  surprised  in  this  espionage  by  Pacheco,  who 
came  on  all  fours  along  the  ridge  pole. 

* '  Good  day,  comrade, ' '  said  Pacheco. 

"Hello,  my  friend." 

' '  I  must  congratulate  you,  comrade ;  what  you  did  yes- 
terday is  one  of  the  funniest  things  I  ever  heard  of." 

"Who  told  you  about  it?" 

"Why,  they  talk  of  nothing  else  in  the  whole  town! 
This  morning,  some  were  still  betting  that  your  corpse 
was  at  the  bottom  of  the  river,  and  they  went  out  in 
boats ;  but  instead  of  the  fish  they  expected  to  catch,  they 
pulled  out  a  rock  wrapped  in  a  cloak.  All  Cordova  is 
laughing  at  the  affair.     You  certainly  were  a  good  one. ' ' 

"But  listen,  comrade,"  said  Quentin,  pointing  to  the 
garret,  "what  kind  of  a  lark  have  you  in  that  cage?" 

"Ah!  That's  true!  It's  a  crazy  woman.  She  says 
she's  in  love  with  me,  and  in  order  to  get  rid  of  her,  I 
brought  her  to  this  place,  where  she  can 't  bother  me. ' ' 

* '  How  did  she  get  here  ?     Along  the  roofs,  too  ? " 

* '  Yes ;  disguised  as  a  man.  In  her  pantaloons  she  had 
a  look  about  her  that  was  enough  to  make  you  want  to 
kick  her  in  the  stomach  and  throw  her  into  the  court- 
yard." 

"Very  well,  then;  let's  go  to  the  garret,  where  break- 
fast is  waiting.  The  thing  I  hate  about  this,  comrade,  is 
not  being  able  to  get  out. ' ' 


I 


PURSUIT  AND  ESCAPE  243 

''Well,  it's  impossible  now;  the  police  have  their  eyes 
peeled.'' 

''And  haven't  they  tried  to  arrest  you,  my  friend?" 

"Me?  They  can't  do  it.  ...  I  have  a  pack  of  blood- 
hounds that  can  smell  from  here  everything  that  goes  on 
in  the  other  end  of  Cordova.  Just  give  one  of  them  a 
message,  and  he  tears  through  the  atmosphere  faster  than 
a  greyhound." 

They  knocked  at  the  garret. 

"  I  'm  not  dressed  yet, ' '  came  from  within. 

' '  Come,  Señora, ' '  exclaimed  Quentin.  ' '  You  are  abus- 
ing my  appetite.  If  you  don't  want  to  open  the  door, 
give  me  the  basket.     I  warn  you.  Pacheco  is  here. ' ' 

"When  she  heard  this,  the  woman  opened  the  door  and 
threw  herself  into  the  arms  of  the  bandit.  She  had  her 
hair  crimped,  covered  with  little  bow  knots,  and  was 
wearing  a  white  wrapper. 

Quentin  took  the  basket. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I'll  leave  you  two  alone  if  you 
wish." 

"No!"  exclaimed  Pacheco  in  terror;  then  turning  to 
the  woman,  he  added :  ' '  This  gentleman  and  I  have  some 
important  matters  to  discuss.  We  are  gambling  with 
life." 

"First  we'll  eat  a  little,"  said  Quentin.  "That's  an 
idea  for  you. ' ' 

"An  alimentary  one." 

They  divided  the  chicken. 

"And  do  they  say  in  town  who  it  was  that  ordered 
them  to  pursue  me  ? "  asked  Quentin. 

" Everybody  ■  knows  that  it  was  La  Aceitunera," 
answered    Pacheco.     "You   insisted   upon   discrediting 


244  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

her,  but  she  grew  strong  under  the  punishment,  and 
wants  no  more  stings  from  La  Víbora,  Then,  so  they 
say,  as  she  seemed  no  mere  stack  of  straw  to  the  Gov- 
ernor, she  allowed  herself  to  be  flirted  with,  and  begged 
him  to  throw  you  into  jail,  and  to  stop  your  paper. '* 

''Well  see  about  that.'* 

''It  will  be  done.  He  does  what  he  wants  here,"  re- 
plied the  bandit.  ' '  You  already  know  what  they  say  in 
Cordova:  'Charity  in  El  Potro,  Health  in  the  cemetery, 
and  Truth  in  the  fields.'  " 

"Then  we'll  go  into  the  fields  to  look  for  it,"  said 
Quentin. 

"Not  that" — answered  Pacheco.  "I  won't  allow  you 
to  lose  out ;  but  if  you  want  to  give  that  woman  a  good 
scare  ..." 

"Have  you  thought  of  some  way?" 

"Not  yet;  are  you  capable  of  doing  something  on  a 
large  scale?" 

"I  am  capable  of  anjrthing,  comrade." 

"Good.    Wait  for  me  until  tonight." 

"Very  well,"  said  Quentin.  "Will  you  take  these 
papers  to  the  printer  for  me?" 

"What  are  they?" 

"Poison  for  La  Víbora,  or  articles,  if  you  like  that 
better." 

' '  Give  them  to  me.  I  '11  be  here  at  seven. ' '  Then  the 
bandit,  turning  to  the  woman,  said :    ' '  Adiós,  my  soul ! ' ' 

"Won't  you  stay  a  little  while,  José?"  she  asked. 

*  *  No.  Life  is  too  short, ' '  he  answered  gruffly,  and  went 
out  through  the  attic  window. 


i 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  VICTIM   OF   A   FEUILLETON 

THE  woman  and  Quentin  were  left  alone. 
*'If  you  don't  want  me  to  stay  here,"  said 
Quentin — * '  tell  me  so. ' ' 
**Do  you  hate  me  so  much  for  last  night?"  she  said. 

*  *  I  ?  No,  Señora ;  but  since  this  chamber  is  so  narrow 
that  one  can  scarcely  move  in  it,  you  must  let  me  know 
if  I  'm  in  your  way. ' ' 

*  *  No ;  you  're  not  in  my  way. ' ' 
Quentin  seated  himself  upon  a  chair,  took  out  his 

ote  book  and  pencil,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  attempt 
one  of  the  most  disagreeable  and  difficult  things  in  the 
world  for  him — making  verses.  Not  by  any  chance  did 
a  consonance  occur  to  him,  nor  did  a  single  verse  come 
out  with  the  right  number  of  feet,  unless  he  counted 
them  upon  his  fingers. 

The  good  woman,  with  her  crimped  hair  covered  with 
little  bow-knots,  and  her  white  wrapper,  was  contem- 
plating the  roof  of  the  garret  with  desperate  weari- 
ness. 

Thus  they  remained  for  a  long  time.  Suddenly  the 
woman  exclaimed  in  a  choked  voice: 

"Señor!" 

**What  is  it.  Señora?" 

"I  seem  very  ridiculous  in  your  eyes,  do  I  not?" 

"No,  Señora, — why?"  asked  Quentin,  and  mumbled 

246 


246  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET  | 

to  himself:  **nude,  crude,  stewed,  conclude —    No,  they 
don't  seem  to  come  very  easily."  I 

' '  I  am  very  unhappy,  Señor. ' '  * 

''Why,   what's  the  matter.    Señora?"   and   Quentin 
went  on  mumbling :   * '  rude,   gratitude,   fortitude.  .  .  .  i 
No,  they  do  not  come  easily." 

"Will  you  listen  to  me,  my  good  sir?  At  present 
you  alone  can  advise  me."  | 

"Speak,  Señora,  I  am  all  ears,"  answered  Quentin,   ^ 
shutting  his  note  book,  and  putting  away  his  pencil. 

The  woman  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  began  as  follows : 

"I,  my  good  sir,  am  called  Gumersinda  Monleón.  My 
father  was  a  soldier,  and  I  spent  my  childhood  in  Se- 
ville. I  was  an  only  child,  and  very  much  spoiled. 
My  parents  satisfied  every  caprice  of  mine  that  was 
within  their  means.  It  was  'Sinda'  here,  and  'Sinda' 
there — as  they  had  abbreviated  my  name.  ...  As  I  im- 
agined myself  at  that  time  to  be  a  somewhat  exceptional 
person,  and  believed  that  I  was  out  of  my  proper  sphere 
in  the  modest  home  of  my  parents,  I  took  up  reading 
romantic  novels,  and  I  think  I  was  by  way  of  having  my 
head  turned  by  them. 

"I  lived  with  all  the  personages  of  my  books;  it 
seemed  to  me  that  all  I  had  to  do  was  to  reach  Paris  and 
ask  the  first  gendarme  for  Guillaboara,  and  he  would 
immediately  give  me  her  address,  or  at  least,  that  of  her 
father.  Prince  Rudolf  of  Gerolstein. 

"With  my  head  full  of  mysteries,  bandits,  and  black 
doctors,  a  suitor  came  to  me — a  rich  young  man  who 
was  owner  of  a  fan-making  establishment.  I  dismissed 
him  several  times,  but  he  came  back,  and,  with  the  in- 
fluence of  my  parents,  he  succeeded  in  getting  me  to 
marry  him.     He  was  a  saint,  a  veritable  saint;  I  know 


THE  VICTIM  OF  A  FEUILLETON       247 

it  now;  but  I  considered  him  a  commonplace  person, 
incapable  of  lifting  himself  to  higher  spheres  above  the 
prosaic  details  of  the  store. 

''After  we  had  been  married  two  years,  he  died,  and 
I  became  a  widow  of  some  thirty-odd  years  and  a  con- 
siderable fortune;  not  to  mention  the  fan-making  es- 
tablishment which  I  inherited  from  my  husband.  A 
young  widow  with  money,  and  not  at  all  bad  looking,  I 
had  many  suitors,  from  among  whom  I  chose  an  army 
captain,  because  he  wrote  me  such  charming  letters. 
Later  I  found  out  that  he  had  copied  them  from  a  novel 
by  Alfonso  Karr  that  was  appearing  in  the  feuille- 
ton  of  Las  Novedades.  Handsome,  with  a  fine  appear- 
ance, my  second  husband's  name  was  Miguel  Estirado. 
But,  my  God,  what  a  life  he  led  me!  Then  I  learned 
to  realize  what  my  poor  Monleón  had  been  to  me. 

''Estirado  had  a  perfectly  devilish  humor.  If  we 
made  a  call  upon  any  one,  and  the  maid  asked  us  who 
we  were,  he  would  say:  'Señor  Estirado  and  his  wife,' 
and  if  the  girl  smiled,  he  would  insult  her  in  the  coarsest 
way. 

"After  six  months  of  married  life,  my  husband  quit 
the  active  service  and  retired  to  take  care  of  the  store. 
Estirado  had  no  military  spirit;  he  sold  the  gold  braid 
from  his  uniform,  and  put  his  sword  away  in  a  corner. 
One  day  the  servant  girl  used  it  to  clean  out  the  closet, 
and  after  doing  so,  left  it  there.  When  I  saw  it,  I  felt 
like  weeping.  I  grasped  the  sword  by  the  hilt,  which 
was  the  only  place  I  could  take  hold  of  it,  and  showing 
it  to  my  husband,  said:  'Look  at  the  condition  your 
sword  is  in  that  you  used  in  defence  of  your  country.' 
He  insulted  me,  clutching  his  nose  cynically,  and  told 
me  to  get  out;  that  he  cared  nothing  for  his  sword,  nor 


248         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

for  his  country,  and  for  me  to  leave  him  in  peace.  From 
that  day  I  realized  that  all  was  over  between  us. 

''Shortly  after  that  Estirado  dismissed  an  old  clerk 
who  used  to  work  in  the  store,  and  hired  two  sisters  in 
his  place:    Asunción  and  Natividad. 

''Six  months  later,  Asunción  had  to  leave  and  spend 
a  few  months  at  a  small  village.  She  came  back  with  a 
little  baby.  Not  long  after  her  return  the  trip  was  re- 
peated. 

*'They  talked  of  nothing  else  in  the  whole  neighbour- 
hood. On  account  of  the  attitude  of  the  two  sisters 
toward  me,  I  dared  not  go  down  to  the  store,  and  they 
did  just  about  as  they  pleased. 

"One  day,  after  six  years,  my  husband  disappeared, 
taking  Natividad,  the  younger  sister,  with  him.  The 
other  girl,  Asunción,  brought  this  news  to  me  with  her 
four  children  hanging  on  her  arm;  and  she  told  me  a 
romantic  tale  about  her  mother,  who  was  a  drunkard, 
and  about  her  sweetheart.  She  reminded  me  of  Fleur 
de  Marie,  in  'The  Mysteries  of  Paris,'  and  of  Fantine, 
in  'Les  Miserables;'  so  I  comforted  her  as  best  I  could 
— what  else  was  I  to  do  ?  Time  passed,  and  Estirado  be- 
gan to  write  and  ask  me  for  money;  then  the  letters 
ceased,  and  after  half  a  year  my  husband  wrote  a  letter 
saying  that  Natividad  had  run  away  from  him,  that  he 
was  seriously  ill  in  a  boarding  house  in  Madrid,  and  for 
Asunción  and  me  to  come  to  take  care  of  him.  I  realized 
that  it  was  not  honourable,  nor  Christian,  nor  right,  but 
at  the  same  time  I  gave  in,  and  we,  his  wife  and  sweet- 
heart, went  and  took  care  of  him  until  he  died.  At  his 
death  I  granted  a  pension  to  the  girl,  left  Seville,  and 
came  to  live  in  Cordova.     That  is  the  story  of  my  life. ' ' 

"Señora,  I  think  you  were  a  saint,"  said  Quentin. 


THE  VICTIM  OF  A  FEUILLETON       249 

''What  astounds  me  is  how,  after  such  an  apprentice- 
ship, you  managed  to  get  mixed  up  in  this  adventure." 

''Well,  you  see  I  did  not  learn  by  experience.  I  met 
Pacheco  one  day  in  the  country,  when  he  entered  my 
farm.  He  reminded  me  of  a  novel  by  Fernandez  y 
Gonzales.  We  spoke  together;  his  life  fascinated  me; 
I  wrote  to  him;  he  answered  my  letter,  assuredly 
through  civility ;  my  head  was  filled  with  madness,  even 
to  the  point  of  disguising  myself  as  a  man  and  follow- 
ing him." 

"Fortunately,  Señora,  you  have  encountered  ex- 
tremely trustworthy  persons,"  said  Quentin,  "who  will 
not  abuse  your  faith." 

"What  advice  do  you  give  me?" 

"Why  something  very  simple.  Tonight  Pacheco  and 
I  shall  probably  leave  here.  You  must  come  with  us; 
we'll  leave  you  at  your  house;  and  that  will  be  an  end 
to  the  adventure." 

"That's  true.     It's  the  best  thing." 

"Now  let's  see,"  said  Quentin,  "if  El  Cuervo  has  put 
any  ballast  in  the  basket." 

He  climbed  upon  a  chair  and  opened  the  window. 

"It's  heavy,"  said  he,  jerking  the  cord;  ''ergo,  there 
are  provisions.  Cheer  up.  Doña  Sinda,"  he  added,  "and 
get  the  table  ready." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

AN   ABDUCTION   IS   PREPARED 

AT  nightfall  Quentin  went  out  on  the  roof, 
stretched  his  spine  along  the  ridge,  and  waited 
for  Pacheco.  The  Cathedral  clock  was  strik- 
ing eight,  when  the  bandit  appeared,  making  his  way 
toward  the  garret  on  all  fours. 

''Hey!"  called  Quentin. 

''What  is  it?     Is  it  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  are  you  waiting  outside  for  me?" 

"So  we  can  talk  without  that  woman  hearing  what 
we  say.     I  have  persuaded  her  to  go  home  peaceably. '  * 

"Very  good.  But  listen,  comrade;  I've  got  a  plan 
ready  for  something  worth  while." 

"I'm  with  you  in  everything.  What  have  you 
thought  of?" 

' '  Of  kidnapping  La  Aceitunera  tonight. ' ' 

"But  can  it  be  done?" 

"Absolutely.  The  Countess  is  going  to  the  theatre. 
She  will  go  in  her  carriage  as  usual,  and  if  Cabra  Peri- 
quito Gálvez  doesn't  show  up  to  accompany  her,  she  will 
go  home  alone  in  her  carriage.  If  Periquito  does  show 
up,  and  does  go  with  her,  we  won 't  do  a  thing ;  if  she  is 
alone,  why,  we'll  steal  her  away." 

"That's  all  very  well;  but  how?" 

"First  of  all,  I'll  see  to  it  that  the  coachman  gets 

260 


AN  ABDUCTION  IS  PREPARED  251 

drunk  so  I  can  take  his  place ;  meanwhile,  you  go  to  the 
theatre,  make  sure  that  she  is  alone,  then  station  your- 
self on  the  sidewalk  opposite  the  lobby,  and  stay  there 
quietly;  if  she  comes  out  escorted,  you  light  a  match  as 
if  you  were  about  to  smoke — understand?" 

''Where  will  you  be  then?" 

''On  the  box.  If  the  Countess  is  escorted,  why,  I'll 
take  her  home,  and  we'll  leave  the  matter  for  another 
day.  If  she  is  alone,  I'll  trot  the  horses  as  far  as  the 
Campo  de  la  Merced,  where  I'll  stop;  you  get  on — and 
away  we  go!" 

"Very  good.  You're  a  wonder,  comrade!  But  let's 
look  coldly  at  the  inconveniences." 

"Out  with  them." 

"First  of  all,  the  departure  from  this  place.  They 
are  still  hanging  around  the  street,  according  to  El 
Cuervo. ' ' 

' '  Ah,  but  do  you  think  I  am  such  an  idiot  as  to  go  out 
through  El  Cuervo's  tavern?     Ca,  man!" 

"No?" 

"Of  course  not/' 

"Well,  where,  then?" 

"You'll  see." 

"Good.  That  solves  the  first  problem:  second,  I  have 
to  go  to  the  theatre  to  see  if  the  Countess  is  alone,  and 
people  know  me;  if  one  of  the  police.  ..." 

"Nothing  will  happen.  Take  this  ticket.  Steal  in 
when  the  performance  has  begun,  and  go  upstairs,  open 
one  of  the  top  boxes  which  are  usually  empty,  and  if 
the  usher  comes  in,  give  him  a  peseta.  He's  a  friend  of 
mine." 

"Good.  Now  we'll  tell  the  woman,  and  be  on  our 
way.     Shall  we  have  supper  first?"  asked  Quentin. 


26»         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

**No;  we  must  have  clear  heads.  "We'll  have  supper 
at  the  El  Pino  farm,  or — in  jail.'* 

"You've  spoken  like  a  man.     Let's  go."  , 

They  entered  the  garret. 

"Doña  Sinda,"  said  Quentin,  "we  are  going  to  crawl 
about  the  roof  a  bit." 

"Wait  a  moment,  comrade,"  said  Pacheco.  "They 
won't  do  anything  to  me;  but  if  they  see  you,  they'll 
tie  you  up,"  and  as  he  spoke,  he  opened  a  wardrobe, 
took  out  a  grey  cloak,  a  kerchief,  and  a  broad-brimmed 
hat. 

"Who's  that  for?" 

"For  you." 

Pacheco  made  a  bundle  of  the  things,  and  said: 

"Hurry!  I'll  go  first,  then  the  Señora,  and  then 
you,  Quentin." 

They  formed  themselves  in  single  file  and  began  to 
move.  The  night  was  dark,  threatening  a  storm;  dis- 
tant flashes  of  lightning  illuminated  the  heavens  from 
time  to  time. 

Doña  Sinda  moved  slowly  and  painfully. 

"Come,  Señora,  come,"  said  Quentin;  "we  are  near 
you." 

My   hands   and   knees   hurt   me,"   she   murmured. 

If  I  could  only  walk  on  my  feet. ' ' 

"You  can't  do  it,"  said  Pacheco.  "You  would  fall 
into  a  courtyard." 

*  *  Ay,  dear  me !     I  'm  not  going  a  step  farther. ' ' 

"We're  going  as  far  as  that  azotea." 

Doña  Sinda  yielded;  they  crawled  along  the  ridge  of 
a  long  roof,  and  came  out  upon  the  azotea.  They  leaped 
the  balustrade. 


AN  ABDUCTION  IS  PREPARED    253 

' '  Oh,  dear !  I  'm  going  to  stay  here ! ' '  exclaimed  Doña 
Sinda. 

''But  my  dear  woman,  it's  only  a  little  farther,"  said 
Quentin. 

"Well,  I  won't  budge." 

"Very  well  then,  we'll  go  on  alone,"  said  Pacheco. 

"Are  we  going  to  leave  her  here?"  asked  Quentin. 

The  bandit  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  without  more 
ado,  leaped  over  the  balustrade  again.  Quentin  fol- 
lowed him,  and  the  two  men  rapidly  covered  a  great 
distance. 

"Now  be  careful,"  warned  Pacheco.  "We've  got  to 
go  around  this  cornice  until  we  reach  that  window. 

It  was  a  stone  border  about  half  a  metre  wide.  At  the 
end  of  it  they  could  see  a  little  illuminated  balcony  win- 
dow, which  as  it  threw  the  light  against  the  wall,  made 
the  cornice  look  as  if  it  were  on  the  brink  of  a  deep  abyss. 
They  went  along  very  carefully  on  all  fours,  one  behind 
the  other.  As  they  reached  the  balcony.  Pacheco  seized 
the  balustrade  and  jumped  upon  the  stairway.  Quen- 
tin followed  his  example. 

"Do  you  know,  comrade,"  remarked  Quentin,  "that 
this  is  scary  business  ? ' ' 

"Then  too,  that  light  is  enough  to  drive  you  crazy. 
In  the  daytime  it  doesn't  scare  you  at  all  to  come  over 
it.     Now  then,  put  on  your  cloak  and  the  other  tackle." 

Quentin  tied  his  kerchief  about  his  head,  put  on  the 
hat,  wrapped  himself  in  the  cloak  and  the  two  men  de- 
scended the  stairs  into  a  garden.  Crossing  this,  they 
came  out  upon  the  street. 

"What  is  this  building?"  asked  Quentin. 

"It  is  a  convent,"   replied  the  bandit.     "Now,  we 


^54  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

mustn't  go  together  any  more.     You  come  along  about 
twenty  or  thirty  paces  behind  me." 

Quentin  followed  him  at  a  distance,  and  after  tra- 
versing several  intricate  alleys,  they  came  out  upon  the 
Plaza  de  Séneca,  and  from  there  upon  the  Calle  de  Am- 
brosio de  Morales,  where  the  theatre  was.  A  gas  light 
illuminated  the  door,  scarcely  lessening  the  shadows  of 
the  street.  The  play  had  not  yet  begun.  Pacheco  en- 
tered a  near-by  shop,  and  Quentin  followed  him. 

"You  stay  here,"  said  the  bandit,  ''and  when  every- 
bocl|^  has  gone  in,  you  follow.  I'm  going  to  the  Count- 
ess'' house. ' ' 

People  were  crowding  into  the  theatre;  two  or  three 
carriages  drove  up;  several  whole  families  came  along, 
with  a  sprinkling  of  artisans.  When  he  no  longer  saw 
anyone  in  the  lobby,  Quentin  left  the  little  shop,  en- 
tered the  theatre,  relinquished  his  ticket,  climbed  the 
stairs  with  long  strides  until  he  reached  the  top  floor, 
and  when  he  saw  the  usher,  handed  him  a  peseta. 

The  usher  opened  the  door  of  a  box. 

**How  is  Señor  José?"  he  asked. 

"Well." 

"He's  a  fine  fellow." 

"Yes,  he  is." 

"  I  've  known  him  for  a  long  time ;  not  that  I  am  from 
Ecija  exactly,  for  I  come  from  a  little  village  near  Mon- 
tilla ;  I  don 't  know  if  you  've  heard  its  name.  ..." 

"See  here,"  said  Quentin,  "I  came  here  because  I  am 
a  relative  of  the  actor  who  takes  old  men's  parts,  and  I 
am  interested  in  hearing  the  performance  and  seeing 
how  he  acts;  if  you  talk  to  me,  I  won't  be  able  to  hear 
anything. ' ' 

* '  Gonzales  ?    Are  you  a  relative  of  Gonzales  ? ' ' 


AN  ABDUCTION  IS  PREPARED  255 

"Of  Gonzales,  or  Martinez,  or  the  devil!  Take  an- 
other peseta,  and  leave  me  alone,  for  I'm  going  to  see 
what  kind  of  an  actor  my  relative  makes. ' ' 

''He's  a  good  comedian." 

''Very  well,  very  well,"  said  Quentin,  and  push- 
ing the  garrulous  usher  into  the  aisle,  he  closed  the 
door. 

As  there  was  scarcely  any  light  up  there,  no  one  could 
recognize  Quentin.  The  theatre  was  almost  empty; 
they  were  giving  a  lachrymose  melodrama  in  which  ap- 
peared an  angelic  priest,  a  colonel  who  kept  shouting 
"By  a  thousand  bombs!"  a  traitor  money-lender  with 
crooked  eyes  who  confessed  his  evil  intentions  in  asides, 
a  heroine,  a  hero,  and  a  company  of  sailors  and  sailor- 
esses,  policemen,  magistrates,  and  others  of  the  pro- 
letariat. ... 

While  Quentin  was  being  bored  in  his  heights,  Pa- 
checo, leaning  against  the  wall  of  La  Aceitunera 's  house, 
was  awaiting  the  return  of  her  carriage  from  the  the- 
atre. 

He  did  not  have  long  to  wait.  The  horses  stopped  be- 
fore the  gate,  and  before  it  could  be  opened,  the  bandit 
approached  the  coachman  and  said : 

"Hello,  Señor  Antonio!" 

"Hello,  Señor  José!" 

"I  want  to  talk  with  you  a  moment." 

"What  about?" 

"About  some  horses  I  am  ordered  to  buy,  and  as  you 
know  so  much.  ..." 

"I'll  be  right  out." 

The  house  gate  opened,  the  coachman  drove  his  car- 
riage inside,  and  in  a  few  moments  rejoined  Pacheco. 

He  was  a  talkative  and  gay  little  man. 


256  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

*^ Let's  go  somewhere  and  have  a  little  wine  with  our 
talk/'  suggested  the  bandit.     ''You've  got  time?" 

''I'm  free  until  eleven-thirty." 

"It's  nine,  now." 

They  went  into  a  tavern  where  Pacheco  explained  to 
his  friend  how  the  horses  must  be.  The  matter  must 
have  been  arduous  and  difficult,  for  the  coachman  lost 
himself  in  a  labyrinth  of  endless  equinal  considerations. 
The  bandit  kept  filling  and  refilling  his  glass  for  him 
as  he  drank. 

'*Man,"  said  Pacheco,  "today  I  was  taken  to  a  tav- 
ern where  there  was  a  superior  wine  that  you  can't  find 
anywhere  else." 

"Really?" 

"I  should  say  so.  Would  you  like  to  go  and  see  if  we 
can  find  it?" 

"Well,  you  see  IVe  got  to  go  at  eleven-thirty." 

"There's  more  than  time  enough." 

"All  right;  let  me  know  when  it's  eleven  o'clock." 

' '  Certainly,  don 't  you  worry.  Do  you  have  to  go  back 
and  get  the  Señora  ? " 

"Yes." 

"And  harness  up  the  horses  again ?'^ 

' '  No.  I  left  them  harnessed.  When  I  get  back  from 
the  theatre,  I  go  through  the  gate,  turn  the  carriage 
around  in  the  patio,  and  leave  it  in  the  entryway  facing 
the  street, — see?  Then  I  go,  open  the  gate,  and  I'm 
off." 

Pacheco  conducted  the  coachman  through  side  streets 
to  El  Cuervo's  tavern. 

"But  where  is  that  tavern,  my  friend?"  asked  the  lit- 
tle old  man. 

"Right  here." 


AN  ABDUCTION  IS  PREPARED         267 

They  went  into  the  tavern. 

'* Bring  me  wine — the  best  you  have,"  said  Pacheco, 
winking  at  El  Cuervo. 

The   innkeeper  brought   a   large   jar  and   filled  the 
glasses.     The    coachman    smelled    the    wine,    tasted    it 
slowly,    relished    it;    then   he    smacked   his   lips,    and 
emptied  the  glass  in  one  gulp. 
.    ' '  What  wine  ! "  he  murmured. 

''Don't  you  think  it's  a  little  bit  strong?" 

''Well,  that's  a  good  kind  of  a  fault  to  have,  com- 
rade!" 

Pacheco  got  up  and  said  to  El  Cuervo: 

"You've  got  to  keep  this  fellow  interested." 

El  Mochuelo  and  Cantarote,  the  gipsy,  came  over  to 
Pacheco 's  table  with  the  pretext  that  there  was  no  light 
where  they  had  been  sitting,  and  began  to  play  cards. 

"Would  you  like  to  play?"  said  Cantarote  to  Pa- 
checo. 

"No,  thanks." 

"And  you?"  the  gipsy  asked  of  the  coachman. 

"I?  To  tell  the  truth,  I've  got  something  to  do. 
What  time  is  it?" 

*'A  quarter  past  ten,"  said  El  Cuervo. 

"All  right,  I'll  play  a  hand." 

"After  all,  what  have  you  got  to  do?"  asked  Pacheco. 
"Just  knock  till  they  open  the  gate,  and  then  climb  up 
on  the  box.  ..." 

"No,  I've  got  the  key  to  the  gate  here,"  remarked  the 
coachman,  patting  his  vest  pocket. 

Pacheco  looked  at  Cantarote,  and  made  a  gesture  with 
his  hand  as  if  he  were  picking  up  something.  Cantarote 
lowered  his  eyelids  as  a  sign  that  he  had  understood, 
and  with  the  utmost  neatness  put  his  hand  into  the  old 


258         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

man 's  vest,  took  out  the  key,  and,  holding  his  cards  in  his 
left  hand,  handed  it  to  Pacheco  behind  the  coachman's 
back. 

The  bandit  got  up. 

**Let  me  have  a  cap,"  he  said  to  El  Cuervo. 

The  innkeeper  brought  one. 

''Keep  him  busy  for  an  hour." 

This  said.  Pacheco  hurried  to  the  Countess'  house, 
opened  wide  the  gate,  climbed  to  the  box,  and  drove  the 
carriage  outside;  then  he  closed  the  gate,  climbed  back 
again,  and  took  his  place  near  the  theatre. 

From  his  hiding-place,  Quentin  had  discovered  some- 
thing curious  and  worthy  of  note.  In  one  of  the  boxes 
near  the  curtain  was  the  Countess,  alone,  with  her  back 
to  the  stage,  and  gazing  at  some  one  through  her  glasses. 
Quentin  followed  her  look,  and  by  bending  low  and 
leaning  his  body  over  the  box,  he  discovered  that  the 
box  at  which  she  was  directing  her  glances  was  occupied 
by  the  Governor  and  two  other  persons ;  but  the  Count- 
ess also  looked  elsewhere:  toward  a  parquette  where 
there  were  a  toreador  and  several  young  gentlemen. 

''Which  is  she  looking  at?"  Quentin  asked  himself. 
"  Is  it  the  Governor,  or  the  toreador  ? ' ' 

The  Countess  rested  her  opera  glasses  absently  upon 
the  railing  of  the  box. 

"Perhaps  she  isn't  looking  at  any  one,"  thought 
Quentin. 

On  the  stage,  they  were  spilling  an  ocean  of  tears: 
the  priest,  with  his  snow-white  hair,  saying,  "My  chil- 
dren" everywhere  he  went,  was  busy  making  his  fel- 
lows happy. 

The  Countess  cast  an  absent-minded  glance  at  the 
stage,  picked  up  her  glasses,  and  took  aim. 


AN  ABDUCTION  IS  PREPARED    259 

''It's  the  Governor,"  said  Quentin. 

The  woman's  glasses  were  lowered  a  bit,  and  he  had 
to  correct  himself. 

' '  It 's  the  toreador, ' '  he  remarked.  ^ 

After  many  vacillations,  Quentin  realized  that  the 
Countess  was  playing  with  two  stacks  of  cards,  and  was 
dividing  her  glances  between  the  First  Authority  of  the 
province,  and  the  young  toreador,  so  recently  arrived  in 
cultured  society  from  a  butcher  shop  in  the  district  of 
El  Matadero. 

The  Governor,  very  serious,  very  much  be-gloved, 
looked  at  the  woman;  the  little  toreador,  with  his  foot 
on  the  parquette  rail,  preened  himself  and  smiled,  show- 
ing the  white  teeth  of  a  healthy  animal. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  last  act,  the  toreador,  who  had 
been  concealed  behind  the  curtains  of  the  parquette,  ap- 
peared with  a  square  piece  of  paper  that  looked  like  a 
note  in  his  hand;  he  showed  it  cautiously,  and  twisted 
it  about  his  fingers. 

Presently  the  woman,  looking  at  the  stage,  nodded 
her  head  in  the  affirmative. 

The  play  was  about  to  come  to  an  end;  every  one  on 
the  stage,  from  the  priest  and  the  two  turtle-doves  to 
the  colonel — by  a  thousand  bombs! — was  happy;  only, 
he  of  the  crooked  eyes  had  been  seized  by  the  police  at 
the  height  of  his  evil  machinations.  Quentin  opened 
his  box,  descended  the  stairs  by  leaps  and  bounds,  and 
took  up  his  post  opposite  the  entrance  to  the  theatre. 
Fat  drops  of  rain  commenced  to  fall,  and  the  thunder 
kept  grumbling  overhead.  There  were  two  carriages  at 
the  door  of  the  theatre.  Pacheco  was  not  in  the  first, 
and  Quentin  could  not  tell  whether  he  was  in  the  sec- 
ond one  or  not. 


260  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

The  audience  began  to  come  out  of  the  theatre ;  when 
they  saw  the  heavy  rain  drops  that  spattered  the  side- 
walk, some  hesitated  to  leave,  then  they  made  up  their 
minds  and  began  to  hurry  along,  pressing  close  to  the 
walls  of  the  houses. 

A  fat  lady  with  her  escort  entered  the  first  carriage, 
and  drove  off  toward  the  Plaza  de  Séneca.  The  second 
carriage  drew  up.  Pacheco  was  on  the  box.  He  and 
Quentin  glanced  at  each  other.  Everything  was  going 
splendidly. 

Just  then  the  Countess  appeared  in  the  lobby  of  the 
theatre  wrapped  in  a  white  cape;  she  opened  the  door 
of  the  carriage  and  climbed  rapidly  into  it.  Behind 
her  appeared  the  toreador,  and  as  the  carriage  was 
about  to  move  off,  he  held  out  his  hand  and  threw  a 
note  through  the  window. 

Pacheco  clucked  to  the  horses,  and  the  carriage  started 
up  the  street  toward  the  conñuence  of  the  Calle  del 
Arco  Real  and  the  Cuesta  de  Lujan.  Quentin  started 
off  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the  Campo  de  la  Merced ; 
he  ran  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry  him,  fearing  all 
the  while  that  he  might  meet  some  watchman  who  would 
recognize  him.  When  he  reached  the  appointed  place 
he  was  played  out.  He  waited,  soaked  in  a  torrential 
downpour.  Before  long,  a  carriage  came  in  sight  and 
stopped  before  him.  Quentin  opened  the  door  and 
stood  upon  the  step.  A  woman  screamed  shrilly.  Quen- 
tin closed  the  carriage  door;  there  came  two  tremendous 
cracks  of  a  whip ;  and  the  coach  moved  off  through  the 
rain  and  obscurity,  drawn  by  the  horses  at  a  full 
gallop.  .  .  . 


B 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

EXPLANATIONS 

í^l"^  UT    good    heavens!    What   is   it? — ^Who    are 
you? — "  cried  the  Countess,  trembling. 
' '  Don 't  be  alarmed,  Señora, ' '  said  Quentin. 
*  *  We  have  no  idea  of  harming  you. ' ' 

"What  do  you  want  of  me?  I  have  no  money  with 
me." 

''We  are  not  looking  for  money." 

''Then  what  do  you  want?" 

"We'll  tell  you  that  later.     Have  a  little  patience." 

Several  moments  passed  in  the  carriage  without  the 
woman  saying  a  word.  She  was  huddled  motionless 
against  a  window. 

After  some  time  had  elapsed,  the  horses  moderated 
their  pace,  one  could  hear  the  rain  on  the  cover  of  the 
carriage.  Suddenly  Quentin  heard  the  door-fastening 
rattle. 

"Don't  be  foolish,  my  lady,"  he  said  rudely.  "And 
don 't  try  to  escape.     It  will  be  dangerous. ' ' 

"This  violence  may  cost  you  dear,"  murmured  the 
Countess. 

"Most  assuredly.  We  men  are  prepared  for  any- 
thing." 

"But  if  you  don't  want  my  money,  what  do  you 
want?  Tell  me,  and  let  us  bring  this  affair  to  a  close 
at  once." 

261 


^6^         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

''That  is  a  secret  that  does  not  belong  to  me/' 

''But,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  woman — "I'll  give  you 
anything  you  want  if  you  will  only  take  me  home." 

At  this  moment  a  flash  of  lightning  violently  illu- 
mined the  night,  and  the  Countess  and  Quentin  were 
enabled  to  see  each  other's  faces  in  the  spectral  light: 
Then  came  a  thunderclap  as  loud  as  a  cannon  shot. 

' '  Oh,  my  God ! ' '  gasped  the  Countess  as  she  devoutly 
crossed  herself. 

Quentin  felt  a  tremor  run  through  him  at  the  sight 
of  the  woman's  terror,  and  said  to  her: 

"My  dear  lady,  do  not  let  us  cause  you  any  alarm. 
Please  rest  assured  that  we  have  no  intention  of  harming 
you.  I  rather  think  that  the  man  on  the  box  is  some 
gentleman  who  is  in  love  with  you,  and  not  being  able 
in  any  other  way  to  attain  good  fortune,  is  abducting 
you  in  this  manner. ' ' 

Quentin 's  accent,  his  gallant  meaning  in  those  cir- 
cumstances must  have  surprised  the  Countess,  as  she 
made  no  answer. 

"Don^t  you  think  so?"  said  Quentin.  "Don't  you 
believe  that  this  is  a  matter  of  some  one  courting  you  1 ' ' 

"It's  a  fine  way  to  court,"  she  replied. 

"All  ways  are  good  if  they  come  out  right." 

"Do  you  believe  that  this  method  of  treating  a  lady 
can  come  out  right?" 

"Why  not?  Other  more  difficult  things  have  been 
seen  in  the  world,  and  they  do  say  that  women  like  the 
novel. ' ' 

"Well,  I  don't  like  it  a  bit." 

' '  Are  you  so  prosaic  that  you  are  not  enchanted  by  the 
thought  of  meeting  soon  a  young,  good-looking,  respect- 
ful abductor  who  offers  you  his  heart  and  life?" 


I 


EXPLANATIONS  263 

"No,  I  am  not  enchanted.  What  is  more,  if  I  could 
send  that  abductor  to  prison  I  would  do  so  with  much 
pleasure. ' ' 

"You  know  that  love  is  intrepid  and  ..." 

Quentin  was  silent.  He  thought  of  the  poem  written 
by  Cornejo  for  La  Yihora. 

"I  don't  know  why,"  said  the  woman  at  length,  "but 
it  seems  to  me  that  I  am  beginning  to  realize  who  my 
abductor  is.  It  strikes  me  that  he  is  a  half -relative  of 
mine  who  dislikes  me  very  much.     A  waif  ..." 

"I  think  you  are  getting  warm,  my  lady." 

""Who  writes  insults  and  calumnies  about  a  woman 
who  has  never  offended  him." 

' '  You  are  not  quite  so  near  the  point,  there.  Listen : 
The  day  before  yesterday,  that  relative  of  yours  was 
rushing  madly  about  these  God-forsaken  streets,  hounded 
by  a  dozen  men;  on  a  night  that  was  as  cold  as  the 
devil,  he  was  on  the  point  of  throwing  himself  into  the 
river  and  scraping  an  acquaintance  with  the  shad  that 
live  in  it." 

"So  you  are  Quentin?" 

"I  am  the  lady's  most  humble  servant." 

' '  How  you  frightened  me  !  I  shall  never  forgive  you 
for  this  night." 

"Nor  will  I  forgive  you  for  the  one  I  spent  the  day  be- 
fore yesterday." 

"Where  is  my  coachman?     Is  he  on  the  box?" 

"No,  my  lady." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"He  is  conveniently  drunk  in  a  tavern  on  the  Calle 
del  Potro." 

"Then  who  is  driving  the  carriage?" 

"Pacheco." 


^64         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

* 'Pacheco!     The  bandit?" 

*'Iii  person.  In  all  ways  a  gentleman,  and  whom  I 
shall  have  the  plesLSure  of  presenting  to  you  tonight  as 
soon  as  we  reach  the  farm  where  we  are  to  stop. ' ' 

*'What  are  you  two  going  to  do  with  me  there?'* 

*'We  shall  think  it  over." 

* '  I  believe  you  intend  to  kill  me.  ..." 

''Kill  you? —  Nothing  of  the  sort.  We  shall  enter- 
tain you;  you  will  take  rides  over  the  mountain;  you'll 
get  a  trifle  brown —  Besides,  we  are  doing  you  a  great 
favour. ' ' 

"Doing  me  a  favour?    What  is  it?" 

"Keeping  you  from  answering  that  little  toreador 
who  had  the  presumption  to  send  you  a  note. ' ' 

"To  send  me  a  note?" 

"Yes,  my  lady;  you.  As  you  came  out  of  the  theatre. 
I  saw  it  with  my  own  eyes." 

"It  must  be  true  if  you  saw  it." 

"Of  course  it  is !  In  the  first  place,  that  toreador  is  a 
stupid  good-for-nothing  who  would  go  about  boasting 
that  you  looked  upon  him  with  sympathy,  and  that  ..." 

' '  Enough,  or  I  '11  even  have  to  thank  you  for  bringing 
me  here." 

"And  it's  true." 

The  Countess  was  growing  calmer  and  less  timid  with 
every  minute. 

"How  many  days  are  you  going  to  keep  ine  kid- 
napped?" she  asked  rather  jovially. 

"As  many  as  you  wish.  When  you  get  too  bored, 
we^l  take  you  back  to  Cordova.  Then,  if  you  still  bear 
us  a  grudge,  you  may  denounce  us. ' ' 

"And  if  I  don't?" 


EXPLANATIONS  265 

' '  If  you  don 't,  then  you  will  permit  us  to  come  to  call 
some  day. ' ' 

''We'll  see  how  you  act." 

Just  then  the  carriage  stopped.  Quentin  prepared  to 
get  down,  and  said  to  the  woman: 

"1  don't  know  what  Pacheco  wants.  Perhaps  he's 
tired  of  riding  on  the  box." 

"Don't  leave  me  alone  with  him,"  murmured  the 
Countess. 

''Never  fear;  Pacheco  is  absolutely  a  gentleman,  and 
will  take  no  undue  liberties.  ..." 

"That  makes  no  difference." 

"Then  I  shall  tell  him  of  your  wish.  If  you  want  to 
be  alone,  tell  me,  and  I'll  ride  on  the  box." 

"No,  no:     I  prefer  you  to  ride  with  me." 

Pacheco  jumped  down  from  the  box,  and  coming 
up  to  Quentin,  said: 

' '  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  done  my  duty  like  a  man, 
and  that  it's  your  turn  to  take  my  place  on  the  box." 

"That's  what  I  think.  Come,  I'm  going  to  present 
you  to  the  Oountess." 

Quentin  opened  the  carriage  door  and  said : 

"Countess,  this  is  my  friend." 

"Good  evening.  Pacheco." 

"A  very  good  evening  to  you,  my  lady." 

"How  tired  you  are  making  yourselves  on  my  ac- 
count!" 

"Señora  Condesa!"  stammered  the  bandit  in  con- 
fusion. 

"You  are  very  nice,"  she  added  graciously. 

"You  are  most  flattering;,"  replied  Pacheco. 

"No;  you  two  are  the  flatterers!" 


^66         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

*'But  are  you  sorry,  my  lady?"  asked  Pacheco 
gravely. 

''I! —  On  the  contrary;  I  am  having  a  very  good 
time." 

** That's  better,  my  lady.  You  mustn't  be  afraid;  if 
you  order  me  to,  we'll  go  back  this  minute." 

The  Countess  considered  for  a  moment,  and  then  cried 
gayly : 

''No;  let  us  go  on.  We'll  go  wherever  you  wish. 
You  stay  with  me,  Quentin,  for  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Again  Pacheco  climbed  to  the  box,  clucked  to  the 
horses,  and  the  carriage  went  on  its  way.  It  was  be- 
ginning to  clear  up;  here  and  there  a  patch  of  star- 
sprinkled  sky  appeared  between  the  great,  black 
clouds. 

' '  He  seems  like  a  fine  fellow, ' '  said  the  Countess,  who 
was  now  completely  at  her  ease,  when  she  and  Quentin 
were  alone. 

1  ''Do  not  deceive  yourself;  there  are  only  two  places 
[where  true  gentlemen  can  be  found:  in  the  mountains, 
or  in  prison." 

"How  awful!"  she  cried. 
I  ' '  That  is  the  way  the  two  extremes  meet, ' '  he  went  on. 
*'When  a  man  is  a  great,  a  very  great  rascal,  and  ut- 
terly disregards  the  ideas  of  the  people  and  everything 
else,  he  has  reached  the  point  where  the  bandit  is  join- 
ing hands  with  the  gentleman." 

"See  here.  Sir  Bandit,"  said  the  Countess  easily, 
"why  did  you  take  this  dislike  to  me,  and  put  me  in 
the  papers?  Because  I  said  that  Rafaela  was  a  hussy, 
and  that  she  had  married  Juan  de  Dios  for  his  money?'* 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

"Did  I  not  speak  the  truth?" 


EXPLANATIONS  267 

' '  It  is  true  that  she  married ;  but  it  was  not  because  she 
wished  it,  nor  because  she  was  ambitious  to  be  rich,  but 
because  the  family  made  her." 

''You  should  laugh  at  that  idea,  my  friend!"  replied 
the  Countess.  ''Not  that  the  girl  isn't  docile!  When 
a  woman  does  not  care  to  marry  a  man,  she  simply  doesn't 
marr}^  him.  ...  Of  course,  you  were  after  her  cash." 

"I  don't  know  why,  but  I  think  I  see  through  you. 
You  aü:'e  very_aBibitious,  a^^^^  all  those  foolish  deeds 

of  yours,  you  are  only  trying  to  fish  for  something. 
You  cannot  deceive  me." 

' '  Well,  you  are  wrong, ' '  said  Quentin.  ' '  I,  ambitious  ? 
I  covet  nothing. ' ' 

"Tell  that  to  your  grandfather,  not  to  me.  You  are 
very  ambitious,  and  she  is  a  very  romantic  damsel,  but 
very  close  with  her  money.  If  you  two  had  married,  a 
fine  disappointment  you  would  have  had !  .  .  .  And  she 
liked  you,  believe  me;  but  as  you  were  not  a  marquis, 
or  a  duke,  but  a  poor  son  of  a  shop-keeper,  she  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  you." 

Quentin  felt  deeply  mortified  by  the  phrase,  and  fell 
silent.     Presently  she  burst  into  gracious  laughter. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  said  Quentin,  piqued. 

"With  all  your  boasting,  you  are  worth  less  than  I 
am :  all  your  cravings  are  for  things  that  are  not  worth 
while.  I  don't  mind  it  in  the  least  when  they  call  me 
La  Aceitunera,  but  yon,  on  the  other  hand,  are  utterly 
cast  down  because  I  called  you  the  son  of  a  shop-keeper. ' ' 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  assented  Quentin  ingenuously. 

"And  why  is  it  true,  my  friend?"  asked  the  Countess. 
"Why,  we  of  the  proletariat  are  worth  more  than 
dukes  and  marquises,  with  all  their  ceremonies  and  frip- 


268  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

peries.  Where  is  the  salt  of  the  earth?  Among  the 
masses.  .  .  .  Why  am  I  what  I  am?  Because  I  mar- 
ried that  bell-ox  of  an  uncle  of  yours.  The  ambitions 
of  my  family  annoyed  me;  they  filled  my  head  with 
titles  and  grandeurs;  it's  one  and  the  same  thing  whether 
you  are  a  duke's  son,  or  the  daughter  of  an  olive  mer- 
chant like  me,  or  the  son  of  an  importer,  like  you. ' ' 
^  The  Countess  was  growing  in  Quentin's  eyes.  The 
sincere  contempt  that  she  felt  for  aristocratic  things, 
seemed  to  him  to  be  a  stroke  of  superiority.  As  far  as 
the  question  of  birth,  and  family,  and  social  position 
was  concerned,  Quentin  was  peevishly  susceptible;  and 
though  he  concealed  these  sentiments  as  best  he  could, 
they  were  often  clearly  apparent  in  him. 

The  Countess  realized  that  this  was  one  of  Quentin's 
vulnerable  spots,  and  took  delight  in  wounding  him. 

"They  must  sell  a  great  many  things  in  that  store. 
It  is  a  beautiful  shop,  very  large  and  ..." 

*'My  dear  lady,"  said  Quentin  comically,  when  the 
annoyance  that  the  woman's  words  cost  him  commenced 
to  take  on  an  ironical  and  gay  character — ''You  are 
very  sarcastic,  but  I  realize  that  you  have  a  right  to 
be." 

*'So,  you  realize  it?" 

**Yes,  my  lady;  and  if  you  keep  it  up,  I  shall  beg 
Pacheco  to  take  my  place  in  this  delicate  mission." 

"I  will  not  allow  you  to  leave  me,"  said  the  Count- 
ess mockingly. 

"Well,  if  this  turns  out  to  be  a  long  journey,  I  shall 
be  found  dead  on  the  bottom  of  the  coach." 

"Dead!     From  what,  Quentin?" 

' '  From  the  pin  pricks  you  are  giving  me  right  square 
in  the  heart.    You  are  about  to  remind  me  for  the  fifth 


EXPLANATIONS  269 

time  that  the  chocolate  we  make  in  the  store  is  adulter- 
ated. ...  I  know  you  are." 

''No,  I've  said  nothing  about  it." 

''Then  you  are  going  to  talk  to  me  about  the  coffee 
which  is  mixed  with  chicory,  and  then,  eventually,  and 
in  order  to  complete  the  offence,  you  will  bring  my  step- 
father's nickname  before  my  eyes. 

"El  Pende— that's  it,  isn't  it?" 

' '  Yes,  my  lady ;  that  is  what  they  call  him. ' ' 

' '  Well,  to  show  you  that  I  am  more  generous  than  you 
think  me,  I  shall  not  mention  it  again.  Henceforth 
you  shall  guard  the  secret  of  my  olives,  as  I  will  guard 
the  secret  of  your  spices.  Tell  me:  Is  it  true  that 
you  have  a  good  voice  ? ' ' 

' '  For  Heaven 's  sake !  What  are  you  trying  to  do,  my 
lady?  Have  pity  and  compassion  on  a  poor  little  chap 
like  me." 

"Go  on,  please  sing.'' 

Quentin  hummed  the  swaggering  song  from  "Rigo- 
letto": 

^'Questa  o  quella  per   me  pari  sono." 

"But  sing  out  loud,"  said  the  Countess. 
Quentin  sang  with  his  full  voice : 

"La  costanza  tiranna  del  core 
detestiamo  qual  morbo  crudele 
sol  chi  vuole  si  servi  fedele 
non  v'ha  amor  se  non  v'é  liberta." 

And  this  last  phrase,  which  Quentin  launched  forth 
with  real  enthusiasm,  echoed  in  the  damp  and  tepid 
night  air.  .  .  . 

"Is  that  a  song  of  circumstances?"  said  the  Countess 
with  a  laugh." 


270  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

**Yes,  my  lady,"  answered  Quentin,  without  fully 
understanding  what  she  meant. 

''Listen  .  .  .  another  thing.  Why  don't  you  make 
love  to  Remedios?" 

*'To  Remedios!     She  is  only  a  child." 

''She's  fourteen.     How  old  are  you?'' 

"Twenty-four." 

"That's  just  right." 

"Yes,  but  how  about  the  groceries?" 

' '  She  would  overlook  that.  Believe  me,  that  child  has 
a  soul.  My  husband's  older  daughter  is  good,  I  won't 
deny  it;  but  she  is  a  cold  thing.  Just  as  she  married 
Juan  de  Dios,  she  would  have  married  any  one,  and 
she  will  be  faithful  to  him,  as  she  would  to  any  one  else, 
¡because  she  hasn't  the  courage  to  do  otherwise;  but  not 
¡so  with  the  little  one,  she's  full  of  it." 

Quentin  recalled  the  two  sisters  and  thought  that  per- 
haps the  Countess  was  right.  With  the  memory,  he  fell 
silent  for  a  long  time. 

"Well,"  said  the  Countess,  "if  you  continue  this 
silence,  it  will  seem  as  if  I  were  the  one  who  is  abduct- 
ing you,  and  that  doesn't  suit  me.  Why,  just  think  if 
one  of  those  verse-scribbling  penny-a-liners  should  find 
out  about  this !     They  would  paint  me  green. ' ' 

"I'll  not  say  another  thing  against  you,  my  lady,  be- 
cause ..." 

"Because  why,  my  friend?  What  were  you  going  to 
say?" 

"Nothing;  1*11  say  that  you  are  one  of  the  most  .  .  .*' 

"One  of  the  most  what?" 

' '  One  of  the  most — but  here  we  are  at  the  farm. ' ' 

And  Quentin  opened  the  carriage  door. 


EXPLANATIONS  271 

'^I  thought  you  were  a  braver  man  than  that,"  said 
the  Countess. 

The  carriage  stopped  and  Quentin  jumped  to  the 
muddy  road.     It  was  beginning  to  rain  again. 

''Can't  you  get  the  carriage  closer  to  the  house?" 
Quentin  asked  Pacheco. 

''Take  hold  of  the  bridle  of  one  of  the  horses.  That's 
it." 

"Shall  I  knock  here?" 

"Knock  away." 

Quentin  gave  two  resounding  knocks. 

Several  minutes  passed,  and  no  one  appeared  at  the 
door. 

"Knock  again,"  said  Pacheco. 

Quentin  did  so,  adorning  his  blows  with  a  noisy 
tattoo. 

' '  Coming !     Coming ! ' '  came  a  voice  from  within. 

They  saw  a  beam  of  light  in  the  door  jamb ;  then  the 
wicket  opened  and  a  man  appeared  with  a  lantern  in  his 
hand. 

"It's  I,  Tío  Frasquito,"  said  Pacheco.  "I  have  some 
friends  witk  me." 

"Good  evening,  Señor  José  and  company,"  said  the 
man. 

"Is  the  ground  impossible?"  inquired  the  Countess 
from  the  inside  of  the  carriage. 

"Yes,  it's  very  muddy,"  replied  Quentin. 

"How  can  I  get  out  in  these  white  slippers?  I'm 
done  for." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  carry  you  in  my  arms?"  said 
Quentin. 

"No,  sir." 


272  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Then  Pacheco,  who  had  climbed  down  from  the  box, 
removed  his  cloak,  seized  it  as  if  he  were  about  to  tease 
a  bull  with  it,  and  with  a  flourish  spread  it  out  upon  the 
damp  earth  from  the  step  of  the  carriage  to  the  door 
of  the  house. 

*' There!     Now  you  can  get  out.'' 

The  Countess,  smiling  and  holding  up  her  silk  dress, 
walked  across  the  cloak  in  her  white  shoes,  and  quickly 
entered  the  vestibule. 

"Long  live  my  Queen!"  cried  Pacheco,  carried  away 
by  his  enthusiasm.  ''And  hurrah  for  all  valiant 
women ! ' ' 

It  began  to  pour. 

''What  will  poor  Doña  Sinda  do?"  said  Quentin. 

"Who  is  Doña  Sinda?"  asked  Pacheco. 

"The  woman  we  left  out  on  the  roof.  She  must  be 
soup  by  this  time." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

IN    WHICH    A    COUNTESS,    A   PROFESSIONAL.   BANDIT,    AND    A 
MAN   OP   ACTION   HAVE   A   TALK 

ONE  afternoon  a  few  days  later,  Quentin  knocked 
at  the  Countess'  door. 
''May  I  come  in?*' 

"Come!" 

Quentin  opened  the  door  and  entered.  The  room 
was  large,  whitewashed,  with  a  very  small  window  di- 
vided into  four  panes,  the  floor  paved  with  red  bricks, 
and  blue  rafters  in  the  ceiling.  Everything  was  as  clean 
as  silver;  in  the  centre  was  a  table  covered  with  white 
oil-cloth,  upon  which  was  a  glass  bottle  converted  by  the 
Countess  into  a  flower  stand  full  of  wild  flowers. 

"My  lady,"  announced  Quentin,  "I  came  to  find  out 
if  you  wanted  anything  in  Cordova." 

"Are  you  going  there?" 

"Yes,  my  lady.  If  you  are  bored,  we'll  take  you  in 
the  carriage  whenever  you  wish." 

"No,  I'm  not  bored.     To  the  contrary." 
p  ^"Then,  why  don't  you  stay  here?" 

"No,  I  cannot. — ^When  do  you  go?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  going  today,  but  if  you  want  me 
to  go  with  you,  I  '11  wait  until  tomorrow. ' ' 

"Very  well,  we'll  wait  until  tomorrow." 

The  Countess  had  made  friends  at  the  farm.  Late  in 
the  afternoon  she  would  take  her  sewing  to  the  door, 
and,  sitting  in  the  shade,  would  work  among  the  women 

273 


27é         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

of  the  house.  They  told  her  about  their  lives  and  their 
troubles,  and  she  listened  with  great  interest.  Quentin 
and  Pacheco  used  to  join  the  group  and  chat  until  the 
farm  bell  signalled  the  labourers,  and  night  fell,  and  the 
flocks  of  goats  returned  with  a  great  tinkling  of  bells. 

The  labourers'  children  used  to  play  in  front  of  the 
doorway;  three  of  them  had  made  friends  with  the 
Countess.  They  were  three  children  who  had  been  left 
motherless;  Miguel  the  eldest,  was  seven,  Dolores,  the 
second,  was  five,  and  Carmen,  the  third,  was  three. 

The  eldest  was  very  lively,  already  a  little  rascal; 
the  second  had  a  tangled  mass  of  blond  hair,  sad,  blue 
eyes,  and  a  sun-burned  face ;  she  wore  one  of  her  father 's 
vests,  a  dirty  apron,  stockings  around  her  ankles,  and  a 
pair  of  huge  shoes.  The  littlest  one  spent  hour  after 
hour  with  her  finger  thrust  into  her  mouth. 

These  three  children,  accustomed  to  being  alone,  were 
content  to  play  with  each  other;  they  played  around, 
striking  and  throwing  each  other  about  the  ground,  and 
never  cried. 

' '  She  bosses  *em  all, ' '  said  one  of  the  old  wives  to  the 
Countess,  pointing  to  the  second  child. 

''Poor  girl.    What  is  your  name?" 

''Dolores.'' 

The  Countess  looked  at  the  child,  who  lowered  her 
eyes. 

"Would  you  like  to  come  with  me,  Dolores?"  she 
asked. 

"No." 

"I'll  give  you  pretty  dresses,  dolls —  Will  you 
come  ? ' ' 

"No." 

The  Countess  kissed  the  girl,  and  every  afternoon  the 


A  COUNTESS,  AND  A  MAN  OF  ACTION      275 

three  children  came,  waiting  for  her  to  give  them  some 
money.  .  .  . 

^'Look  there,"  said  the  Countess  to  Quentin,  pointing 
to  a  hen  that  was  strutting  along  the  barnyard  with  her 
still  featherless  chicks — "I  envy  her." 

"Do  you?"  asked  Quentin.  "You  are  more  ro- 
mantic than  I  thought  you  were." 

"Romantic,  my  friend?  Why?  That  is  Truth,  Na- 
ture." 

"  Ah !     But  do  you  believe  in  the  goodness  of  Nature  ? ' ' 

"Don't  you?" 

"No,  I  do  not.     Nature  is  a  farce." 

''You  are  the  farce!"  said  the  Countess.  "I  could 
never  live  with  a  man  like  you,  Quentin. ' ' 

"Couldn't  you?" 

"No.  If  I  had  married  you,  we  would  have  ended 
badly." 

"Would  we  have  beaten  each  other?" 

"Probably." 

"Look  here;  two  things  would  have  pleased  me,"  re- 
plied Quentin.  "To  allow  myself  to  be  struck  by  you 
would  have  been  magnificent,  but  to  give  you  a  drub- 
bing would  also  have  been  good." 

"Would  you  have  dared?"  said  the  Countess  with  a 
slight  ñush  in  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  shining. 

"Yes,  if  I  were  your  husband,"  answered  Quentin 
calmly. 

"Don't  pay  any  attention  to  this  fellow,"  said  Pa- 
checo, "for  all  that  is  just  idle  fancy." 

Pacheco  manifested  a  respectful  enthusiasm  toward 
the  Countess,  but  at  times  he  wondered  if  Quentin,  with 
his  wild  ideas  and  outbursts,  might  not  interest  the 
Countess  more 


^76  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

.  .  .  And  as  they  chatted,  the  afternoon  advanced ;  the 
sun  poured  down,  its  reflected  rays  were  blinding  as  they 
fell  on  stones  and  bushes;  and  the  air,  quivering  in  the 
heat,  made  the  outlines  of  the  mountain  and  the  distant 
landscape  tremble. 

''Would  you  like  to  take  a  ride,  my  lady?"  said  Pa- 
checo.       , 

''Yes,  indeed." 

"Shall  I  saddle  your  horse?" 

"Fine!" 

The  Countess  mounted,  followed  by  Pacheco  and 
Quentin,  and  the  three  made  their  way  toward  the  top  of 
the  mountain  by  a  broad  path  that  ran  between  stout 
evergreens. 

It  was  late  Autumn ;  the  days  were  sweltering,  but  as 
soon  as  the  sun  set,  the  air  became  very  refreshing. 

The  mountain  was  splendid  that  afternoon.  The  dry, 
clean  air  was  so  transparent  that  it  made  even  the  most 
distant  objects  seem  near;  the  trees  were  turning  yellow 
and  shedding  their  dried  leaves ;  the  harvested  meadows 
had  not  yet  begun  to  turn  green.  In  the  highways  and 
byways,  brambles  displayed  their  black  fruit,  and  the 
dog-rose  bushes  their  carmine  berries  among  their  thorny 
branches. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of  doing,  Quentin?  What 
have  you  up  your  sleeve?"  asked  the  Countess  sud- 
denly. 

"Everybody  knows,"  replied  Pacheco — "that  he's  a 
lively  fish." 

*^Ca,  man,"  answered  Quentin.  "Why,  I'm  an  un- 
happy wretch.  Just  now,  I  admit,  I  am  capable  of  do- 
ing anything  to  get  money  and  live  well." 

"He  contradicts  himself  at  every  turn!"  exclaimed 


A  COUNTESS,  AND  A  MAN  OF  ACTION      277 

the  Countess,  somewhat  irritated.  "I'm  beginning  to 
disbelieve  everything  he  says;  whether  he  tells  me  that 
he  is  bad,  or  whether  he  assures  me  that  he  is  un- 
happy." 

"You  see  I'm  not  to  be  classified  by  common  stand-- 
ards.  One  half  of  me  is  good,  and  the  other  half  bad. 
Sometimes  it  seems  as  if  I  were  a  demagogue,  and  I  turn 
out  to  be  a  reactionary.  I  have  all  sorts  of  humility  and 
all  sorts  of  arrogance  within  me.  For  example,  if  you, 
were  to  say  to  me  tomorrow :  '  By  selling  all  the  inhabi- 
tants of  Cordova  into  slavery,  you  can  make  a  fortune,' 
I  would  sell  them. ' ' 

"A  lie ! "  replied  the  Countess.  ' ' You  would  not  sell 
them." 

"No;  I  would  not  sell  them  if  you  told  me  not  to." 

"Really,  now!" 

"Do  you  know  what  I  used  to  think  of  doing  when  I 
was  in  England?"  said  Quentin. 

"What?"  asked  Pacheco. 

"Of  putting  up  a  money  box.  You  must  have  seen 
one  of  them  in  Madrid,  I  think  in  the  Calle  del  Fuen- 
carral ;  people  throw  lots  of  money  into  it.  Well,  I  saw 
it  on  my  way  through  the  city,  and  in  school  I  was  al- 
ways thinking:  'When  I  get  to  Spain,  I'm  going  to  set 
up  four  or  five  money  boxes,  and  take  all  the  money 
that 's  thrown  into  them. ' ' 

' '  What  ideas  you  do  have ! ' '  said  the  Countess. 

' '  I  have  always  thought  that  the  first  thing  to  do  was 
to  get  rich." 

"Why  not  work?" 

"One  can  never  make  one's  self  rich  by  working.  I 
have  two  aphorisms  that  rule  my  life ;  they  are :  first,  be 
it  yours  or  another's,  you  will  never  get  on  without  1 


^78         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

¡money;  second,  laziness  has  always  its  reward,  and  work 
its  punishment." 

"You  are  a  faker,  and  one  cannot  talk  to  you,"  said 
the  Countess.     "What  about  you.  Pacheco?" 

"He?  Why,  he's  another  romanticist,"  replied 
Quentin. 

' '  Really  ?  * '  asked  the  woman. 

"Yes,  somewhat,"  replied  the  bandit  with  a  sigh. 

* '  Some  fine  day, ' '  added  Quentin,  ' '  you  will  hear  that 
Pacheco  has  done  something  either  very  foolish,  or  very 
heroic. ' ' 

"May  God  hear  you,"  murmured  the  bandit. 

"Do  you  see?" 

"Isn't  it  better  to  do  something  famous,  than  to  live 
in  a  hole  like  a  toad  all  your  life  ? ' ' 

"What  would  you  like  to  do?"  asked  the  Countess 
with  curiosity. 

< '  I  ? — Take  part  in  a  battle ;  lead  it  if  possible. ' ' 

*  *  Then  you  want  to  be  a  soldier. ' ' 

"You  mean  a  general,"  interrupted  Quentin  with  a 
laugh. 

'  *  And  why  not,  if  he  has  good  luck  ? '  * 

"What  does  one  need  to  be  a  general?"  asked  Pa- 
checo. "To  have  a  soul,  to  be  valiant,  and  to  be  ready 
to  give  up  your  life  every  minute." 

"And  furthermore,  to  have  a  career,"  replied 
Quentin  ironically  .  .  .  "to  have  good  recommenda- 
tions. ' ' 

"But  you  always  look  upon  everything  as  small  and 
niggardly!'*  exclaimed  the  bandit  hotly. 

"And  you,  my  friend,  hope  to  encounter  great  and 
strong  things  in  a  mean  society.     You  are  deceived." 

Pacheco  and  Quentin  fell  silent,  and  the  Countess 


A  COUNTESS,  AND  A  MAN  OF  ACTION      279 

contemplated    the     two    men    as    they    rode    quietly 
along.  .  .  . 

It  was  late  afternoon.  The  dry  earth,  warmed  by  the 
sun,  exhaled  the  aroma  of  rosemary  and  thyme  and 
dried  grass.  Upon  the  round  summit  of  the  mountain, 
trees,  bushes,  rocks,  stood  out  in  minutest  detail  in  the 
diaphanous  air. 

The  sun  was  sinking.  The  naked  rocks,  the  thickets 
of  heather  and  furze,  were  reddened  as  if  on  the  point 
of  bursting  into  flame.  Here  and  there  among  the  yel- 
low foliage  of  the  trees,  appeared  the  white  and  smiling 
walls  of  farmhouses.  .  .  . 

Soon  night  began  to  fall;  bands  of  deep  violet  crept 
along  the  hillsides;  one  could  hear  in  the  distance  the 
crowing  of  cocks  and  the  tinkling  of  bells,  which  sounded 
louder  than  usual  in  that  peaceful  twilight ;  the  air  was 
tranquil,  the  sky  azure.  .  .  .  Herds  of  cattle  spread  over 
the  fields,  which  were  covered  with  dry  bushes;  and 
along  the  damp  pathways,  bordered  by  huge,  grey  cen- 
tury-plants, a  torrent  of  sheep  and  goats  flowed,  fol- 
lowed by  their  shepherd  and  his  great,  gentle-eyed,  white 
mastiff. 

When  they  returned  to  the  farmhouse,  Tío  Frasquito 
said  to  Pacheco: 

**We  have  been  waiting  for  you.'' 

**Why,  what's  up?" 
*-    **They  just  baptized  a  baby  in  the  farm  next  to  ours, 
and  are  having  a  little  dance.     If  you  people  would  like 
to  go  .  .  ." 

' '  Shall  we  go  ? "  Pacheco  asked  the  Countess. 

^'Whynot?" 

''Then  we'll  have  supper  right  away,  and  be  there 
in  a  moment. ' ' 


£80  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

They  ate  their  supper ;  and  on  foot  and  well  cloaked,  as 
it  was  rather  cool,  they  walked  along  paths  and  across 
fields  to  the  neighbouring  farm. 

As  they  drew  near,  they  could  hear  the  murmur  of 
conversation  and  the  strumming  of  a  guitar.  The  entry- 
way  in  which  the  fiesta  was  being  celebrated  was  large 
and  very  much  whitewashed.  It  had  a  wide,  open 
space  in  the  centre,  with  two  columns;  suspended  from 
the  beams  of  the  ceiling,  were  two  big  lamps,  each  with 
three  wicks.  Seated  upon  benches  and  rope  chairs  were 
several  young  girls,  old  women,  sun-blackened  men,  and 
children  who  had  come  to  witness  the  baptism. 

In  the  centre  was  a  space  left  free  for  the  dancers. 
Seated  near  a  small  table,  which  held  a  jug  and  a  glass, 
an  old  man  was  strumming  a  guitar,  a  man  with  a  face 
and  side-whiskers  that  just  begged  for  a  gun. 

The  entrance  of  the  Countess  and  her  escorts  was 
greeted  with  loud  acclaim ;  one  of  the  farm  hands  asked, 
and  it  was  not  easy  to  tell  whether  in  jest  or  in  all  seri- 
ousness, if  that  lady  was  the  Queen  of  Spain. 

The  caretaker  of  the  farm,  after  installing  the  three 
guests  in  the  most  conspicuous  place,  brought  them  some 
macaroons  and  glasses  of  white  wine. 

Boleras  and  fandangos  alternated,  and  between  times 
they  drank  all  the  brandy  and  wine  they  wanted.  The 
Countess  went  to  see  the  mother  of  the  baptized  child. 

** Aren't  you  going  to  dance,  Pacheco?"  asked  Quen- 
tin. 

**Areyou?" 

*'Man  alive,  I'm  not  graceful  enough.  I'll  play  the 
guitar.    You  ask  the  Countess  to  dance  with  you." 

''She  won't  do  it." 

**Do  you  want  me  to  ask  her  for  you?" 


A  COUNTESS,  AND  A  MAN  OF  ACTION      281 

^'Good  idea." 

Quentin  did  so  when  she  returned.  She  burst  out 
laughing. 

''Well,  will  you  do  it?" 

''Of  course,  man." 

"Hurrah  for  all  valiant  women.  Ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen," said  Quentin,  turning  to  the  bystanders, 
' '  the  Señora  is  going  to  dance  with  Pacheco ;  I  shall  play 
the  guitar,  and  I  want  the  best  singer  here  to  stand  by 
me." 

Quentin  sat  in  the  chair  where  the  old  man  had  been, 
and  near  him  stood  a  little  dark-haired  girl  with  large 
eyes.  He  tuned  the  guitar,  turning  one  key  and  then 
another,  and  then  began  a  devilish  preparatory  flourish. 
Little  by  little  this  uncouth  flourish  grew  smoother, 
changing  into  a  handling  of  the  strings  that  was  finesse 
itself. 

' '  Go  ahead, ' '  cried  Quentin.  ' '  Now  for  the  little  high- 
lander!" 

The  Countess  arose  laughing  heartily,  with  her  arms 
held  high;  Pacheco,  very  serious,  also  arose  and  stood 
before  her.  An  old  woman,  a  mistress  of  the  art,  be- 
gan to  click  her  castanets , with  a  slow  rhythm. 

' '  Girlie, ' '  said  Quentin  to  the  singer,  ' '  let 's  hear  what 
you  can  do." 

In  almost  a  whisper,  the  girl  sang : 

"Con  abalorios,  cariño, 
con  abalorios." 

(With  glass  beads,  love,  with  glass  beads.) 

The  dancers  made  their  start  rather  languidly. 
The  girl  went  on : 


m2         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

"Con  abalorios, 
tengo  yo  una  chapona, 
tengo  yo  una  chapona, 

cariño!  con  abalorios." 

(With  glass  beads,  I  have  a  dressing  sack,  I  have  a  dressing  sack, 
love!  with  glass  beads.) 

The  dancers  were  a  little  more  lively  in  the  "  pa- 
rade,'^  the  castanets  clicked  louder,  and  the  high,  treble 
voice  of  the  girl  increased  in  volume : 

"Están  bailando 
el  clavel  y  la  rosa, 

están  bailando 
el  clavel  y  la  rosa, 
ay!  están  bailando!" 

(They  are  dancing,  the  pink  and  the  rose,  they  are  dancing, 
the  pink  and  the  rose ;  Ah !  they  are  dancing ! ) 

This  last  phrase,  which  was  somewhat  sad,  was  ac- 
companied by  a  ferocious  sound  of  castanets,  as  if  the 
player  wished  to  make  the  dancers  forget  the  melancholy 
of  the  song. 

The  girl  went  on: 

"Porque  la  rosa 
entre  más  encarnada, 

Porque  la  rosa 
entre  más  encarnada 
ay!  es  más  hermosa!" 

(For  the  rose,  the  more  she  blushes,  for  the  rose,  the  more  she 
blushes.  Ah!  the  more  beautiful  she  becomes.) 

Then  the  castanets  clicked  wildly,  while  all  the  by- 
standers cheered  the  dancers  on.  Pacheco  pursued  his 
partner  with  open  arms,  and  she  seemed  to  provoke  him 
and  to  flee  from  him,  keeping  out  of  his  reach  when  he 


A  COUNTESS,  AND  A  MAN  OF  ACTION      283 

was  about  to  conquer  her.  In  these  changes  and  move- 
ments, the  Countess'  skirts  swished  back  and  forth  and 
folded  about  her  thighs,  outlining  her  powerful  hips. 
The  whole  room  seemed  filled  with  an  effluvia  of  life. 

Quentin  enthusiastically  continued  to  strum  the  guitar. 
The  singer  had  offered  him  a  glass  of  white  wine,  and 
without  ceasing  to  play,  he  had  stretched  out  his  lips  and 
drained  it. 

The  dance  was  repeated  several  times,  until  the 
dancers,  worn  out,  sat  down. 

'' Splendid!  Magnificent!"  exclaimed  Quentin  with 
tears  in  his  eyes. 

Suddenly  the  little  girl  who  had  sung  told  him  she  was 
going. 

''Why?" 

* '  Because  some  joker  is  going  to  put  out  the  lights. '  * 

Quentin  put  down  the  guitar  and  went  over  to  the 
Countess. 

''You'd  better  go,"  he  told  her,  "they  are  going  to 
put  out  the  lights." 

She  got  up,  but  did  not  have  time  to  go  out.  Two  big 
youths  put  out  the  lamps  with  one  blow,  and  the  entry- 
way  was  left  in  darkness.  Quentin  led  the  Countess  to 
a  corner,  and  stood  ready  to  protect  her  in  case  there  was 
need.  There  was  a  bedlam  of  shrill  shrieks  from  the 
women,  and  laughter,  and  voices,  and  all  started  for  the 
door  which  was  purposely  barred.  Quentin  felt  the 
Countess  by  his  side,  palpitant. 

"That'll  do,"  said  the  landlord,  "that's  enough  of 
the  joke,"  and  he  relit  the  lamps. 

The  fiesta  became  normal  once  more,  and  soon  after, 
all  began  to  file  out. 

The  following  was  the  day  fixed  upon  for  the  de- 


284  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

parture.  Pacheco  had,  as  he  said,  reasons  for  not  going 
to  Cordova,  so  he  did  not  go.  Quentin  sat  upon  the  box 
and  drove  off  with  the  Countess.  At  nightfall,  they 
were  on  the  Cuesta  de  Villaviciosa.  From  that  height, 
by  the  light  of  the  half -hidden  sun,  they  could  see  Cor- 
dova; very  flat,  very  extensive,  among  fields  of  yellow 
stubble  and  dark  olive  orchards.  A  slight  mist '  rose 
from  the  river  bed.  In  the  distance,  very  far  away,  rose 
the  high  and  sharp-peaked  Sierra  of  Granada. 

Carts  were  returning  along  the  road,  jolting  and  shak- 
ing ;  they  could  hear  the  Moorish  song  of  the  carters  who 
were  stretched  out  upon  sacks,  or  skins  of  olive  oil; 
riders  on  proud  horses  passed  them,  seated  upon  cow- 
boy saddles,  their  shawls  across  their  saddle  bows,  and 
their  guns  at  their  sides.  .  .  . 

When  they  entered  Cordova,  night  had  already  fallen ; 
the  sky  was  sprinkled  with  stars;  on  either  side  of  the 
road,  which  now  ran  between  the  houses,  great,  many- 
armed  century  plants  shone  in  the  darkness. 

Quentin  drove  the  carriage  to  the  Countess'  palace,  and 
jumped  from  the  box,  much  to  the  astonishment  of  the 
porter. 

** Good-bye,  my  lady,"  said  he,  holding  out  his  hand 
and  assisting  her  from  the  carriage. 

** Good-bye,  Quentin,"  she  said  rather  sadly. 


s 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE   mason's   message 

i*/'^  O  you  know  nothing  about  him?"  asked  the 

Swiss. 

' '  Not  a  thing, ' '  replied  Maria  Lucena.  ' '  He 
left  here  the  very  night  they  tried  to  arrest  him,  and  he 
hasn't  showed  up  yet.  They  say  that  he  and  Pacheco 
kidnapped  the  Countess." 

''The  devil!     An  abduction!" 

''Yes.  Let  me  tell  you,  that  man  disgusts  me,  and  I 
wish  I  hadn't  met  him." 

Paul  Springer  contemplated  the  pale  face  of  the  act- 
ress sympathetically. 

' '  He  '11  show  up, ' '  he  said. 

"I  hope  he  never  does!"  she  replied. 

The  Swiss  was  disturbed. 

' '  How  did  you  meet  Quentin  ?  Through  the  fracas  he 
started  here?" 

"Yes.  They  told  me  that  there  had  been  a  dispute 
between  a  young  chap  and  a  vile  man  who  had  insulted 
me.  I  asked  Cornejo,  the  fellow  who  writes  topical  songs 
for  the  musical  comedies,  who  my  defender  was,  and  he 
said:  'I'll  show  him  to  you.'  Every  night  I  asked 
him :  '  Who  is  he  ?  Who  is  he  ? ' — ^but  he  never  showed 
up.  After  awhile  I  got  impatient  and  said  to  Cornejo: 
'  Look  here ;  you  tell  your  friend  that  I  want  to  meet  him, 
that  if  he  doesn't  come  to  the  theatre,  to  go  to  my  house, 
and  that  I  live  near  here  in  a  boarding  house  called 

285 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Mariquita 's  House.'  Would  you  believe  it?  There  I 
was,  waiting  day  after  day,  and  he  never  showed  up ! " 

**You  must  have  been  indignant,"  said  Springer. 

^'Naturally!  I  said:  'If  he  doesn't  know  me,  why 
did  he  defend  me?  And  if  he  does  know  me,  why 
doesn't  he  come  to  see  me?'  " 

'  *  How  did  you  get  to  meet  him  finally  ? ' ' 

^'You'll  see;  one  day  Cornejo  came  in  here  with  Quen- 
tin,  and  introduced  him  to  me  as  the  man  who  had  in- 
sulted me  and  had  been  struck  by  my  defender.  I  said 
a  lot  of  outrageous  and  insulting  things  to  him,  and  just 
then  a  friend  of  his  came  in  and  greeted  him  with  a 
'Hello,  Quentin!'  Then  I  realized  that  he  was  my  de- 
fender and  we  made  friends." 

''Yes,  he's  very  fond  of  those  farces." 

"Why  did  he  do  it?     I  can't  understand  that  man." 

"Nor  does  he  understand  himself,  probably;  but  he's 
a  good  fellow." 

At  the  very  second  that  the  Swiss  was  saying  these 
words,  Quentin  entered  the  café,  looked  about  him  in- 
differently and  came  up  to  the  table  at  which  Maria 
Lucena  and  Springer  were  seated. 

When  she  saw  him,  Maria  suddenly  turned  red. 

"Ah!  So  you've  come  at  last!"  she  cried  angrily. 
' '  Where  have  you  been  ? ' ' 

"If  you  had  had  your  way,  my  dear,  I  would  have 
been  in  prison." 

' '  That 's  where  you  ought  to  be  always.  Thief !  May 
a  nasty  viper  sting  you !  Tell  me,  what  have  you  been 
doing  all  these  days  ? ' ' 

"Why,  I've  been  on  a  farm,  hiding  from  the  police." 

"I'm  likely  to  believe  that!    You've  been  with   a 


THE  MASON'S  MESSAGE  287 

The  procedure  of  extracting  the  truth  with  a  lie  pro- 
duced results,  for  Quentin  said  candidly: 

' '  Where  did  you  find  that  out  ? " 

''You  see,  it's  the  truth!  And  now  you  are  tired  of 
her  and  have  come  back  here.  Well,  son,  you  can  clear 
out;  for  there's  no  more  meat  on  the  hook  for  lack  of  a 
cat,  and  I  want  nothing  more  to  do  with  you.  I  have 
more  than  enough  men  who  are  better  than  you  are,  who 
have  more  money  than  you  have,  and  more  heart.'* 

"I  don't  deny  it,"  replied  Quentin  coldly. 

" Ah !  You  don 't  deny  it ?  You  don 't  deny  it ?' '  she 
shouted,  raising  her  voice  in  her  fury.  "But  what  do 
you  think  I  am  ?    What  do  you  think  ? ' ' 

' '  Come,  don 't  shriek  so, ' '  said  Quentin  gently. 

"I'll  shriek  if  I  want  to.  Tell  me,  you  evil-blooded 
scoundrel;  what  did  you  take  me  for?  Do  you  think 
you  can  laugh  at  me  like  this?" 

"That  is  admirable  logic!"  replied  Quentin.  "One 
believes  here  that  his  life  is  the  axle  of  the  universe; 
other  people's  lives  have  no  importance." 

"Why—" 

"Please ;  I  am  talking.  I  left  the  café  the  other  night, 
and  thanks  to  the  influence  of  Señor  Gálvez,  with  whom 
you  were  ..." 

"I!"  said  Maria.     "That's  not  true." 

"I  myself  saw  you." 

"Where  could  you  see  me  from?" 

"From  the  door,  my  dear." 

"But  you  don't  know  Gálvez!"  she  replied,  believing 
that  Quentin  must  have  had  the  news  at  second-hand. 

"True;  but  I  know  the  waiter,  and  I  asked  him: 
'Who  is  the  gentleman  talking  with  Maria  Lucena?' 
And  he  answered:  'Señor  Gálvez.'     So  don't  lie  about 


i  <° 


n 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

it.  Very  well ;  thanks  to  the  beneficent  influence  of  that 
gentleman  friend  of  yours,  I  was  on  the  point  of  be- 
ing carried  off  to  prison,  or  of  throwing  myself  into  the 
river  .  .  .  yet,  I  do  not  go  screeching  about  the  place — 
because  I  do  not  believe  that  my  life  can  be  the  axle  of 
the  universe.'' 

"Fool,  more  than  fool!" — she  shouted.  ''I'll  pound 
your  brains  out  this  very  minute ! ' ' 

''You'll  pound  nothing;  and  listen,  if  you  will." 
What  for  ?    You  're  going  to  lie. ' ' 
Very  well  then:  don't  listen." 
I  wish  they  'd  take  you  to  prison  and  keep  you  there 
all  your  life  with  your  head  stuck  through  a  pillory." 

"If  you  care  to  listen,  I'll  tell  you  whom  I  was  with." 

"I'm  listening." 

"Well,  I  was  with  the  Countess." 

"Then  you  haven't  the  least  bit  of  shame,"  said  Ma- 
ria furiously. 

"The  Countess,"  Quentin  continued,  "was  upset  by 
the  verses  in  La  Víbora,  and  wished  to  avenge  herself, 
and  had  asked  the  Governor  to  have  me  thrown  into 
prison. ' ' 

"Then  what?" 

"Well,  Pacheco  and  I  joined  forces,  and  instead  of  her 
arresting  us,  we  arrested  her,  and  carried  her  off  in  her 
carriage  to  a  farm." 

"What  happened  there?"  asked  the  actress. 

"Nothing;  we  became  good  friends." 

"Bah!" 

"What  ideas  women  have  of  each  other! — "  said 
Quentin  sarcastically.  "For  them,  all  other  women 
are  prostitutes." 

"Not  all:  just  some." 


I 


THE  MASON'S  MESSAGE  289 

'*Do  you  believe  that  the  Countess  is  a  chorus  girl?" 
said  Quentin  acridly. 

Maria  paled  and  looked  at  Quentin  with  concentrated 
fury. 

''What  did  the  Countess  do  there?"  asked  the  Swiss. 

''Nothing — rode  and  walked.  She  acted  like  what 
she  is :  a  fine  lady.     Pacheco  was  crazy  about  her. ' ' 

"Weren't  you?" 

"You  know,  Springer,  that  I  am  marble  as  far  as 
women  are  concerned." 

"What  a  faker!"  exclaimed  the  Swiss. 

"What  a  liar!"  added  Maria  Lucena. 

' '  May  they  pluck  my  wings,  as  the  gipsies  say,  if  I  'm 
not  telling  the  truth.  You  know,  Maria,  that  I'm  like 
a  box  of  mixed  candy  that  has  neither  cover  nor  flap. ' ' 

"I  don't  believe  you." 

"Then  I  say  you're  a  St.  Thomas  in  skirts." 

Maria  was  gradually  calming  down  and  speaking 
more  pleasantly,  as  she  prepared  to  leave  for  the  theatre, 
when  a  man,  tall,  thin,  with  a  black  beard,  kangaroo 
arms,  and  ferocious-looking  hands,  came  up  to  Quentin. 
After  making  some  mysterious  grimaces,  and  winking 
his  eyes,  he  whispered  something  in  Quentin 's  ear. 
•    "What  did  that  man  say  to  you?"  asked  Maria. 

"That  man  is  a  hardware  dealer  and  a  Freemason; 
he  told  me  that  I  must  go  to  the  Patrician  Lodge 
tonight." 

"There  you  go  again  with  your  humbugs.  I've  lost 
all  patience  with  you.  So  he's  a  Fleemason,  eh?  Do 
you  think  I'm  a  fool?" 

"Hey!"  called  Quentin  to  the  hardware  dealer,  who 
had  already  reached  the  door. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  Mason. 


290  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

**Will  you  kindly  tell  this  woman  what  you  wanted 
of  me?" 

*'Ah!  I  cannot,"  replied  the  man,  smiling  and  plac- 
ing one  of  his  paws — ^which  were  worthy  of  long-handed 
Artaxerxes — upon  his  breast.     **No,  I  cannot." 

He  then  raised  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  then  to  his 
shoulder,  making  several  strange  gestures. 

'*Do  you  believe  he  is  a  Fleemasonf"  said  Maria  to 
the  Swiss  in  a  whisper. 

**Yes;  assuredly." 

**A11  right,  Diagasio,  that  will  do,"  said  Quentin. 

*'Ha  .  .  .  ha  .  .  .  !"  laughed  the  actress.  *'That 
poor  man  really  has  a  peculiar  look. ' ' 

The  hardware  merchant  bowed,  a  smile  appeared 
within  his  black  beard,  like  a  ray  of  sunlight  in  a  thicket, 
and  moving  his  huge  hands  lazily,  he  thoughtfully  re- 
tired, not  without  having  knocked  a  bottle  off  a  table  and 
stepping  on  a  dog. 

''Poor  fellow,"  said  Quentin,"  he  has  become  un- 
balanced with  all  this  Masonry." 

**What  did  you  call  him?"  asked  the  Swiss. 

**  Diagasio.  His  real  name  is  Diego,  but  Diagasio 
seems  more  euphonious  to  me.  In  the  Lodge  we  have 
baptized  him  Marat." 

The  Swiss  smiled,  and  Quentin  left  the  café.  He 
traversed  several  alleys,  and  was  walking  along  the 
Calle  de  los  Dolores  Chicos  toward  the  Calle  del  Cister, 
when  a  man  wrapped  in  a  cloak  approached  him. 

"Wait  a  moment,  Quentin,"  said  a  voice. 

** Hello,  Don  Paco." 

** Where  are  you  going?" 

*'To  the  Lodge,  as  I  have  just  received  notice  to  do." 

**I  sent  the  notice  to  you." 


THE  MASON'S  MESSAGE  291 

''You  did?    What's  up?" 

*'We  must  speak  alone,  Quentin." 

''Whenever  you  wish." 

"Things  are  moving  rapidly,  my  friend.  The  Revo- 
lution is  gaining  ground;  but  in  this  city,  the  Revolu- 
tionary Committee  does  nothing — or  almost  nothing. 
Inter  nos,  its  members  haven't  enough  patriotism;  un- 
derstand ?  We  must  stir  them  up ;  and  you,  who  know 
many  strong-minded  people,  can  help  a  lot." 

"Pacheco  has  more  influence  than  I  have,  in  that  re- 
spect. ' ' 

"But  to  ally  oneself  with  a  bandit!" 

"As  to  that,  you  chaps  will  find  out  whether  he  suits 
you  or  not." 

' '  What  do  you  think  of  him  ? " 

"I'll  talk  to  him." 

"Is  he  in  Cordova?" 

"He  is  near  Cordova." 

"Good:  I  shall  speak  here  in  the  Lodge,  and  in  the 
Junta:  if  they  are  agreed,  you  make  an  appointment 
with  Pacheco,  and  we  shall  meet  later." 

"Very  well.  Will  you  know  tomorrow  if  they  are 
agreed  ? " 

' '  Yes.  I  '11  let  you  know ;  and  when  you  get  an  an- 
swer from  Pacheco,  we  '11  go  to  see  him. ' ' 

"Very  well.     Until  another  time." 
-   ' '  Until  very  soon. ' ' 

The  two  conspirators  shook  hands  by  way  of  a  fare- 
well, and  wrapping  themselves  to  their  eyes  in  their 
cloaks,  they  glided  along  the  narrow  alleyways. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

A  CONFERENCE 

A  FEW  days  later,  at  nine-thirty  in  the  evening, 
Quentin  climbed  the  stairs  of  a  house  on  the 
Calle  del  Cister. 

He  entered  the  second  floor,  traversed  the  lay- 
brother's  school — a  large  room  with  tables  in  rows  and 
placards  on  the  walls — and  passed  into  the  Lodge,  which 
was  a  garret  with  a  table  at  one  end  and  an  oil  lamp 
that  provided  the  only  light. 

Quentin  could  not  tell  whether  the  honourable  Masons 
there  assembled  were  in  a  white  meeting  or  coloured 
meeting;  the  session  must  have  been  over,  for  the  Presi- 
dent, Don  Paco,  was  perorating — though  now  deprived 
of  his  presidential  dignity — among  the  rabble  of  the 
Aventine  Hill. 

Don  Paco  was  a  veritable  river  of  words.  All  of  the 
stock  revolutionary  phrases  came  fluently  to  his  lips. 
"The  rights  of  a  citizen," — **the  ominous  yoke  of  re- 
action" .  .  ,  **the  heroic  efforts  of  our  fathers"  .  .  .  , 
**a  just  punishment  for  his  perversity"  .  .  . 

Don  Paco  pronounced  all  these  phrases  as  though  by 
the  mere  act  of  saying  them,  they  were  realized. 

If  they  charged  one  of  the  Masonic  brothers  with  a 
dangerous  mission,  and  he  made  the  excuse  of  having 
a  family,  Don  Paco  said,  as  Cato  would  have  remarked: 

** Country  before  family." 

But  if  the  dangerous  mission  were  for  him,  Don  Paco 

202 


A  CONFERENCE  293 

would  argue  that  he  did  not  wish  to  compromise  the 
sacred  cause  of  liberty  by  a  rash  act. 

Sometimes,  instead  of  saying  sacred,  he  said  vener- 
able, which,  for  Don  Paco,  had  its  own  value  and  dis- 
tinctive meaning. 

If  some  Progressist  leader  in  Madrid  was  supposed  to 
have  been  a  traitor  against  either  the  sacred,  or  the 
venerable  cause,  Don  Paco  cried  out  in  the  Lodge : 

'^A  la  harra  with  the  citizen!     A  la  harra!'^ 

He  himself  did  not  know  what  la  harra  was;  but  it 
was  a  matter  of  a  cry  that  would  sound  well,  and  that 
sounded  admirably:     A  la  harra! 

When  he  was  too  excited,  Don  Paco  admired  English 
parliamentarism  above  everything  else.  Quentin  had 
once  told  him  that  he  looked  like  Sir  Robert  Peel. 

Quentin  had  seen  the  figure  of  that  orator  on  an  ad- 
vertisement for  shoe-blacking;  he  had  nothing  but  the 
vaguest  ideas  of  Sir  Robert's  existence;  but  it  was  all 
the  same  to  Don  Paco,  and  the  comparison  made  him 
swell  with  pride. 

Aside  from  these  political  farces,  Don  Paco  Sánchez 
Olmillo,  Master  Surgeon  and  Master  Mason,  was  a  good 
sort  of  person,  without  an  evil  trait;  he  was  a  small, 
bald-headed  old  man,  pimply  and  apopleptic.  He  had 
a  thick  neck,  eyes  that  bulged  so  far  from  his  head  that 
they  looked  as  if  they  had  been  stuck  into  his  skin.  At 
the  slightest  effort,  with  the  most  insignificant  of  his 
phrases,  he  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair ;  if  he  turned 
loose  one  of  his  cries,  his  blush  changed  from  red  to 
violet,  and  even  to  blue. 

Don  Paco  had  great  admirers  among  the  members 
of  the  Lodge;  they  considered  him  a  tremendous  per- 
sonage. 


294         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Quentin  called  to  Diagasio,  the  long-handed  hard- 
ware merchant,  and  said: 

' '  Tell  Don  Paco  I  'm  waiting  for  him. ' ' 

''He's  speaking." 

''Well,  I'm  in  a  hurry." 

Diagasio  left  him,  and  presently  Don  Paco  came  over, 
still   orating,    and    surrounded   by    several    friends. 

"No,"  he  was  saying,  "I  claim  it,  and  I  shall  always 
claim  it.  We  Spaniards  are  not  yet  ready  to  accept  the 
republican  form  of  government.  Ah,  gentlemen!  If 
we  were  in  England!  In  that  freest  of  all  lands,  the 
cradle  of  liberties,  ...  of  sacred  liberties." 

"Very  well," — said  Quentin  quickly,  "that  discourse 
does  not  concern  me.  I  came  to  tell  you  that  I  have 
received  an  answer  to  the  letter  I  sent,  and  that  he  has 
made  an  appointment." 

Don  Paco  returned  to  his  friends,  and  now  and  then 
a  phrase  reached  Quentin:  "A  dangerous  mission," 
"mysteries,"  "the  police,"  "the  result  will  be  known 
later."  Then  the  worthy  President  came  over  to 
Quentin. 

"Will  some  one  accompany  us?" 

"No;  why  should  they?  The  more  people  that  go, 
the  worse  it  will  be." 

"That's  true.     They  will  mistrust  us." 

Don  Paco  took  leave  of  his  friends  as  Sir  Robert  Peel 
might  have  done  had  they  taken  that  gentleman  to  the 
gallows:  they  descended  the  stairs,  and  came  out  upon 
the  street.  r 

They  made  their  way  to  the  Gran  Capitán,  from  there 
to  the  Victoria,  and  then,  passing  the  Puerta  de  Galle- 
gos, they  travelled  toward  the  Puerta  de  Almodóvar. 

Quentin  felt  a  great  sense  of  satisfaction  when  he  ob- 


A  CONFERENCE  295 

served  the  fact  that  the  old  man  was  frightened.  At 
every  step  Don  Paco  said  to  him : 

' '  Some  one  is  following  us. ' ' 

*' Don't  be  idiotic.     Who  is  going  to  follow  us?" 

"Ah!  You  don't  know  what  a  terrible  police  force 
those  men  have!" 

To  Don  Paco,  life  was  all  mystery,  darkness,  espionage, 
conspiracy.  To  sum  up :  it  was  fear,  and  the  fear  in 
this  instance  was  neutralized  by  speaking  aloud,  and 
humming  selections  from  comic  operas. 

This  mixture  of  petulance  and  fright  amused  Quentin 
greatly.  When  he  saw  that  the  old  man  was  very  ani- 
mated, humming  an  air  from  ''Marina,"  or  from  "El 
Domino  Azul, ' '  he  said  to  him : 

''Hush,  Don  Paco,  I  think  I  saw  a  man  spying  on  us 
from  among  those  trees." 

Immediately  the  animation  of  the  worthy  President 
changed  into  an  evil-omened  silence. 

As  the  two  men  followed  the  wall,  the  enormous,  red 
moon  rose  over  the  town  like  a  dying  sun ;  the  Cathedral 
tower  looked  very  white  against  the  dark  blue  sky.  .  .  . 
They  passed  a  tile-kiln,  and  Quentin,  seeing  that  Don 
Paco  was  dispirited,  said: 

' '  I  think  we  can  be  at  ease  now,  for  from  here  on  there 
are  no  guards  nor  watchmen  to  spy  on  us. ' ' 

These  words  heartened  the  old  man;  a  moment  later, 
he  was  humming  a  piece  from  ' '  El  Domino  Azul, ' '  which 
contained  words  to  the  effect  that  he  did  not  want  his 
dove  so  near  the  hawk. 

Then,  absolutely  at  ease,  he  commenced  to  say  in  a 
pompous  voice : 

''There  are  moments  in  the  lives  of  cities  as  there  are 
in  those  of  individuals.  ..." 


£96         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

**A  speech!  Don  Paco,  for  Heaven's  sake!  At  a 
time  like  this!"  exclaimed  Quentin.  .  .  . 

The  old  man,  seeing  that  he  could  not  continue  his 
discourse,  said  familiarly : 

**The  things  that  have  been  accomplished  in  our  life- 
time, Quentin !  When  we  first  met,  there  in  the  Café  de 
Pepón,  on  the  Calle  de  Antonio  de  Morales,  we  were  a 
mere  handful  of  men  with  advanced  ideas.  .  .  .  Today, 
you  see  how  different  it  is.  And  all  through  my  efforts, 
Quentin.  I  inaugurated  the  Reading  Centre  for  work- 
men, and  the  Patrician  Lodge  .  .  .  ;  I  was  one  of  the 
Hatchet  Club,  and  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Com- 
mittee.    I  was  always  conspiring." 

**You  are  very  brave,"  said  Quentin  slyly. 

**No;  all  I  am  is  patriotic;  really,  Quentin.  How 
many  times  at  night  have  I  ventured  out  in  disguise, 
sometimes  along  the  Gran  Capitán,  or  through  any  of 
the  sally-ports  on  the  left,  and  reached  the  bridge  by 
encircling  the  wall!  There  I  used  to  glide  along  the 
fosses  of  the  Calahorra  castle,  climb  down  to  the  other 
bank  of  the  Guadalquivir,  and  continue  down  stream 
until  I  struck  the  Montilla  turnpike.  At  other  times  I 
crossed  the  river  by  the  Adalid  ford,  to  come  out  later 
behind  the  Campo  de  la  Verdad  in  a  bit  of  land  called 
Los  Barreros,  where  a  guard  received  me  most  in- 
formally." 

"Why  all  these  masquerades,  Don  Paco?" 

**You  may  believe  that  they  were  all  necessary." 

Don  Paco  and  Quentin  were  walking  toward  the  river, 
when  suddenly,  between  the  Puerta  de  Seville,  and  the 
Cementerio  de  la  Salud,  they  heard  a  loud,  harsh  voice 
that  rang  out  powerfully  in  the  silence  of  the  night. 

**Halt!    Who  goes  there?" 


A  CONFERENCE  297 

* '  Two  men, ' '  answered  Quentin  sarcastically,  ' '  at  least 
that 's  what  we  look  like. ' ' 

'   ''For    God's    sake    don't!"    exclaimed    Don    Paco. 
"They  might  shoot." 

The  voice,  louder  and  more  threatening  than  before, 
shouted  again: 

"Halt,  in  the  name  of  the  guardia,  civil!" 

"We^are  halted,"  stammered  Don  Paco,  trembling. 

' '  Advance. ' ' 

They  approached  the  spot  where  they  had  heard  the 
voices ;  one  of  the  guards,  after  looking  at  them  closely, 
said: 

"What  are  you  doing  here  at  this  time  of  night?" 

"This  gentleman,"  said  Quentin,  "has  been  called  to 
a  farmhouse  to  bleed  a  sick  man." 

"Is  he  a  blood-letter?" 

"I'm  a  doctor,"  said  Don  Paco. 

"What  are  you?" 

"I'm  his  assistant." 

"Why  didn't  you  answer  us  immediately?" 

"On  account  of  the  effect  you  had  on  us,"  said  Quen- 
tin slyly. 

"Well,  you're  lucky  to  be  let  off,"  remarked  the 
guard. 

' '  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ? ' '  asked  Quentin. 

"Pacheco  has  been  about  these  nights." 

Don  Paco  began  to  tremble  like  a  leaf. 

"Well,  we  must  go  and  bleed  that  sick  man,"  said 
Quentin.     "Adiós,  Señores." 

"Good  night." 

They  went  around  the  wall,  and  suddenly  Don  Paco 
came  to  a  determined  halt. 

"No;  I'm  not  going!"  he  exclaimed. 


298  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

''What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

**It  is  very  imprudent  for  us  to  go  and  see  Pacheco,** 
the  old  man  stammered.  *'We  shall  discredit  the 
cause. ' ' 

*'You  might  have  thought  of  that  before." 

''Well,  I'm  not  going." 

"Very  well;  I  shall  go  alone." 

"No,  no.  .  .  .  Ah,  my  God!" 

"Are  you  ill,  Don  Paco?" 

"Yes;  I  believe  I've  taken  cold — "  replied  the  ter- 
rible revolutionist  in  a  trembling  voice.  "Furthermore, 
I  do  not  see  the  necessity  of  visiting  Pacheco  at  this  time 
of  night." 

"Then  I'll  go  if  you  wish." 

"What's  the  use?"  added  the  old  man  insinuatingly. 
"Everybody  will  think  that  we  went  to  see  Pacheco. 
Neither  of  us  need  deny  the  fact;  so  why  should  we  go 
now  and  expose  ourselves  to  a  serious  danger?  Besides, 
it's  a  cold  night,  and  cold  is  not  healthy." 

"But  we  have  an  appointment  with  Pacheco." 

"What  difference  does  that  make?" 

'  *  Then  there  is  still  another  reason, ' '  continued  Quen- 
tin. 

"What  is  it?" 

"If  we  go  back  now,  and  the  guards  see  us,  they'll 
get  suspicious." 

"Then  what  shall  we  do?" 

' '  I  think  the  best  thing  to  do  is  to  go  ahead. ' ' 

Don  Paco  sighed,  and  very  reluctantly  followed  after 
Quentin.  The  moon  was  climbing  higher  in  the  sky. 
The  old  man  walked  along  profoundly  disheartened. 
After  half  an  hour  had  elapsed,  he  said : 


A  CONFERENCE  299 

''Now  we  can  go  back." 
il     ''What  for?     We've  only  a  little  farther  to  go." 
'^     A  moment  later  they  left  the  road  and  approached  the 
house.     Quentin  thrust  his  fingers  into  his  mouth  and 
whistled  shrilly. 

"They're  coming,"  said  Don  Paco,  trembling. 

In  a  few  seconds,  they  heard  another  whistle.     Quen- 
tin went  to  the  door  of  the  house;  at  the  same  time,  a 
small  window  was  opened,  and  Pacheco  said  in  a  low 
voice : 
I     ''Is  that  you,  Quentin?" 
^     "Yes." 

"I'll  be  right  down." 

The  door  opened  noiselessly,  and  Don  Paco  and  Quen- 
tin entered  a  dark  vestibule. 

"This  way,"  said  Pacheco 's  voice. 

"Why  don't  you  light  a  lamp?"  asked  Don  Paco. 

"Light  can  be  seen  at  a  distance." 

They  crossed  the  vestibule  and  entered  a  kitchen  il- 
luminated by  a  lamp. 

"Be  seated,  gentlemen,"  said  the  bandit.  He  closed 
the  kitchen  door,  and  threw  an  armful  of  dried  branches 
upon  the  fire.     "It's  a  cold  night,"  he  added. 

Don  Paco  and  Quentin  sat  down,  and  the  latter  be- 
gan to  speak  : 

"This  gentleman,"  he  said,  "is  Don  Paco  Sánchez 
Cimillo,  who,  as  you  know,  is  one  of  the  members  of  the 
Revolutionary  Junta  and  Chief  of  the  Patrician  Lodge. ' ' 

"No,  not  Chief,"  Don  Paco  interrupted.  "The  Ma- 
sons have  no  chiefs." 

' '  We  won 't  discuss  the  use  of  words  now ;  the  idea  is 
to   come   to    an   understanding.     This   gentleman,   and 


300         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

other  members  of  the  Junta,  have  thought  that  you, 
comrade,  could  help  them  start  a  movement,  and  wish 
to  get  into  touch  with  you. ' ' 

' '  The  fact  is, ' '  said  Don  Paco,  who  believed  that  Quen- 
tin  was  compromising  him  a  bit  too  much,  ''that  I  have 
no  power — " 

''It's  not  a  question  of  legal  power,  nor  of  lawyers," 
replied  Quentin.     "With  us,  one's  word  is  sufficient." 

"It's  absolute,  comrade,"  added  Pacheco. 

"Don  Paco,  you  wished  to  know  if  Pacheco  could  or- 
ganize the  movement,  did  you  not?" 

"Yes;  that  is  it  essentially." 

"Very  well;  now  you  know.  Pacheco.  Kindly  tell  us 
if  you  can  undertake  the  work,  and  under  what  con- 
ditions. ' ' 

"See  here,  Quentin,"  said  the  bandit,  "you  already 
know  my  ideas,  and  that  I  am  more  liberal  than  Riego. 
I  don't  want  a  thing  for  helping  along  the  Revolution: 
no  money,  nor  any  kind  of  a  reward ;  I  'm  not  going  to 
haggle  over  that.  What  I  do  want  is,  that  ^íhfiJí 'Twill 
not  do  me  a  bad  turn.  Because  those  Junta  fellows,  and 
I  don't  mean  this  gentleman,  are  capable  of  'most  any 
thing.  I'll  go  to  Cordova  and  see  what  people  I  can 
count  on,  and  I'll  do  all  the  work  there  is  to  do;  but 
under  one  condition;  and  that  is,  that  all  those  gentle- 
men of  the  Junta  will  guarantee  that  the  police  will  not 
interfere  with  me.  That  is  to  say,  I  don't  mind  ex- 
posing myself  to  being  shot,  but  I  don't  want  to  get  shot 
in  the  belt  for  nothing. ' ' 

"I  have  no  authority — "  said  Don  Paco,  "nor  the 
attributes.  ..." 

"You  will  have  to  take  that  up  with  the  Junta,"  said 
Quentin.    "Why  don't  you  go,  comrade?" 


A  CONFERENCE  801 

**No;  I'm  not  going  to  Cordova." 

''Why  not?" 

''Because  I'm  afraid  that  they  have  sold  me,  and  it 
wouldn  't  go  well  with  the  man  who  did  it. ' ' 

"A  couple  of  guards  stopped  us  yonder,  and  told  us 
that  they  were  waiting  for  you,"  said  Quentin. 

"Where?" 

"Near  the  Cementerio  de  la  Salud." 

"Well,  let  'em  squat,"  said  Pacheco,  "but  let  us  get 
at  what  we  are  going  to  do.  Comrade,  if  you  will  do 
me  the  favour  of  seeing  those  Junta  fellows  and  speaking 
to  them,  you  can  tell  them  exactly  what  I  want.  If 
they  accept,  tell  El  Cuervo ;  he  '11  see  to  it  that  I  receive 
the  answer,  and  the  next  day  111  be  in  Cordova." 

"Then,  there's  nothing  more  to  say." 

The  three  men  rose  to  their  feet. 

"Well,  let's  be  going,  Don  Paco,"  said  Quentin. 

"Man  alive,  wouldn't  it  be  better  for  us  to  stay  here 
all  night?" 

"As  you  wish." 

"Are  there  any  beds  here?" 

"I  should  say  not!" 

"I  sleep  in  the  strawloft,"  said  Pacheco.  "I'll  go 
with  you,  if  you  wish. ' ' 

Don  Paco  hesitated  between  going  over  the  road  again, 
and  passing  a  bad  night,  and  chose  the  latter. 

"Let  us  go  to  the  strawloft." 

Pacheco  took  a  lantern,  opened  the  kitchen  door, 
traversed  a  patio,  then  another,  and  mounting  a  stair- 
case, came  to  a  hole ;  it  was  the  strawloft. 

"Stretch  out,"  said  Pacheco;  "tomorrow,  day  will 
break,  and  the  one-eyed  man  will  see  his  asparagus. 
Goodnight!" 


302  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Quentin  removed  his  boots,  and  in  a  little  while  was 
fast  asleep. 

In  the  morning  a  loud  voice  awoke  him. 

** Muleteers!     Day's  dawning!" 

Quentin  sat  up;  the  sun  was  pouring  through  the 
cracks  in  the  loft;  cocks  were  crowing.  Pacheco  had 
gone.  Don  Paco,  seated  on  the  straw,  with  a  coloured 
handkerchief  on  his  head,  was  groaning. 

''What  a  night!  My  God,  what  a  night!"  Quentin 
heard  him  say. 

''What!     Didn't  you  sleep,  Don  Paco?" 

"Not  a  minute.     But  you  slept  like  a  log." 

"Well,  let's  be  going." 

They  got  up,  and  picked  the  straw  off  their  clothes, 
like  feathers  from  a  goose. 

They  left  the  farm.  It  was  a  superb  day.  When 
they  drew  near  the  Cementerio  de  la  Salud,  they 
descended  to  the  river,  and  traversing  the  Alameda  del 
Corregidor,  between  the  Seminary  and  the  Arabian  mill, 
they  came  out  at  the  bridge  gate. 

"This  afternoon  at  the  Casino,"  said  Don  Paco,  who 
once  within  the  city  was  beginning  to  regain  his  pres- 
ence of  mind. 

"At  what  time?" 

"At  dusk." 

"I'll  be  there." 

"Now  you  see  what  one  does  for  one's  ideas,"  said 
Don  Paco  in  the  Casino.  "One  sacrifices  one's  self  for 
the  Revolution,  and  for  the  Country ;  one  faces  the  odium 
of  the  Moderates  for  years  and  years;  one  exposes  one's 
self  to  all  the  dangers  imaginable;  and  even  then  they 
do  not  count  one  among  the  founders.  They  speak  of 
Olózaga,  of  Sagasta.  ...  I  tell  you  it  is  an  outrage." 


A  CONFERENCE  303 

''Hello,  Don  Paco,"  greeted  Quentin.  "Are  you  all 
rested  from  your  bad  night?" 

''Yes.     Let  us  interview  those  men." 

"Whenever  you  wish." 

"Let  us  go  now." 

"Where  do  we  have  to  go?" 

"To  the  house  of  the  Count  of  Doña  Mencia.  The 
Junta  is  meeting  there." 

The  Count  lived  in  one  of  the  central  streets  of  Cor- 
dova. They  entered  the  vestibule  and  rang.  A  servant 
opened  the  gate  and  accompanied  them  to  the  main 
floor,  to  a  large  hall  with  a  panelled  ceiling,  and  illumi- 
nated by  two  wax  candles.  On  the  walls  were  highly 
polished  portraits,  in  enormous,  heavily  carved  frames. 
A  young  man  with  a  black  beard  greeted  Don  Paco  and 
Quentin,  and  conducted  them  into  an  office  where  eight 
or  ten  persons  were  seated. 

These  men  did  not  interrupt  their  conversation  at  the 
entrance  of  the  new  comers,  but  went  on  talking:  the 
Revolution  was  spreading  throughout  all  Andalusia ;  the 
Revolutionary  troops  were  marching  on  Cordova.  .  .  . 

Don  Paco  heard  this  news,  and  then  spoke  to  one  of 
the  gentlemen  about  his  conversation  with  Pacheco. 
This  gentleman  came  up  to  Quentin  and  said : 

"Tell  Pacheco  that  he  can  rest  easy  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned.  I  shall  do  all  in  my  power  to  keep  them  from 
apprehending  him." 

' '  Do  you  hear  what  the  Count  of  Doña  Mencia  says  ? ' ' 
Don  Paco  asked  Quentin. 

"Yes,  but  it  is  not  enough,"  replied  Quentin,  who 
felt  profoundly  irritated  upon  hearing  that  name.  "I 
went  to  see  Pacheco  because  Don  Paco  told  me  that  he 
could    be    useful    to    you    in    organizing    the    people. 


SOé         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Whether  or  not  my  friend  has  power,  I  do  not  know; 
what  I  do  know  is  this,  that  Pacheco,  in  order  to  come 
to  Cordova,  makes  the  condition  that  you  gentlemen 
must  give  your  word  that  he  will  not  be  arrested,  and 
that  they  will  play  no  tricks  on  him.  Now  you  may  find 
out  whether  that  suits  you  or  not." 

The  violent  tone  employed  by  Quentin  surprised  the 
gentlemen  of  the  Junta;  some  of  them  protested,  but 
the  Count  went  over  to  the  protestants  and  spoke  to 
them  in  a  low  voice.  They  discussed  Pacheco 's  propo- 
sition ;  some  said  that  such  complicity  with  a  bandit  was 
dishonourable;  others  were  merely  concerned  with 
whether  he  would  be  useful  or  not.  Finally  they  made 
up  their  minds,  and  one  of  them  came  up  to  Quentin  and 
said: 

''You  may  tell  your  friend,"  and  the  man  empha- 
sized the  word,  ''that  he  will  not  be  molested  in  Cor- 
dova." 

"Do  you  all  hold  yourselves  responsible  for  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  well.     Good  afternoon." 

Quentin  inclined  his  head  slightly,  left  the  office, 
crossed  the  hall,  and  went  into  the  street.  He  made  his 
way  to  El  Cuervo's  tavern,  where  he  told  the  landlord 
to  let  Señor  José  know  that  he  could  come  to  Cordova 
with  absolute  safety. 


I 


CHAPTER  XXX 

PROJECTS 

IT  was  very  convenient  for  Quentin  to  have  Pacheco 
in  Cordova.  The  latter  carried  on  the  conspiracy 
as  smoothly  as  silk ;  he  had  come  to  an  understand- 
ing with  the  secretary  of  the  Count  of  Doña  Mencia, 
who  was  expecting  to  contribute  the  money  realized  from 
a  sale  of  some  Government  bonds  in  Madrid.  It  was 
also  convenient  for  Quentin  to  have  Pacheco  agitate  the 
people;  if  the  agitation  was  successful,  he  would  profit 
by  it ;  if  not,  he  would  peacefully  retire. 

Some  days  later,  Quentin  had  not  yet  arisen  when 
Pacheco  presented  himself  at  his  house.  Maria  Lucena  's 
mother  opened  the  door  and  conducted  him  into  the  bed- 
room. 

' '  Don 't  get  up, ' '  said  Pacheco.     ' '  Stay  right  in  bed. ' ' 
''What's  doing?     What  brings  you  here?" 
' '  I  came  this  early  because  I  did  not  want  to  meet  any 
one  in  the  streets;  it  might  prove  to  be  a  provocation. 
I  talked  with  one  of  the  members  of  the  Junta,  and  he 
assured  me  again  that  I  have  no  need  to  be  afraid,  that 
they  will  not  arrest  me ;  then  he  asked  me  if  I  had  any 
plan,  any  project,  and  I  told  him  that  I  couldn't  explain 
as  yet.     Understand?     Now  the  result  is  that  some  of 
them  think  that  I  have  the  Revolution  all  prepared." 
"That's  funny,"  said  Quentin. 

305 


306         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

*'What  shalll  do?" 

' '  The  first  thing  you  ought  to  do,  is  to  get  that  money 
from  the  Count." 

* '  They  are  going  to  give  it  to  me  this  week. ' ' 

*'Good;  then  go  on  buying  arms  and  organizing  a 
following. ' ' 

''Right  in  Cordova?" 

"Yes;  but  without  showing  yourself  in  the  streets; 
let  every  man  stay  in  his  house.  We  must  figure  out  our 
strength,  and  wait  for  the  proper  opportunity. ' ' 

''And  then—" 

"Then,  circumstances  will  tell  us  what  to  do.  If  it 
suits  us  to  start  a  row  now,  why  we'll  start  it;  if  we 
have  to  shoot  a  few  guns  in  the  streets  tomorrow,  why, 
well  shoot  them.  Nobody  knows  what  may  happen. 
The  troops  are  out  there  on  the  bridge,  and  messages 
and  letters  and  packages  come  and  go.  The  idea  in  the 
city  is  to  be  strong,  and  to  keep  hidden. ' ' 

"So  I  must  go  ahead  and  recruit?" 

"Of  course." 

"All  right.  I'm  living  outside  of  the  town  now,  in 
a  hut  on  the  Campo  de  la  Verdad ;  you  see  I  don 't  like 
to  stay  in  the  city." 

"You  have  done  well." 

"The  house  faces  the  river,  and  has  a  horseshoe  over 
the  vestibule.     Come  and  see  me  tomorrow." 

"At  what  time?" 

"In  the  afternoon." 

"I'll  be  there." 

During  the  subsequent  days,  Quentin  went  every  after- 
noon to  Pacheco  's  house  in  the  Campo  de  la  Verdad ;  sat 
down  in  a  cloth -bottomed  rocking-chair;  put  his  feet  on 
the  window  sill,  and  smoked  his  pipe. 


PROJECTS  307 


He  listened  to  the  conversation,  and  gazed  indiffer- 
ently at  the  town. 

Through  his  half-closed  eyes  he  saw  the  half-ruined 
gate  of  the  bridge;  beyond,  and  above  it,  rose  the  grey 
walls  of  the  Mosque,  with  their  serrated  battlements; 
above  these  walls  hung  the  dark  cupola  of  the  cathedral, 
and  the  graceful  tower  rose  glistening  in  the  sun,  with 
the  angel  on  its  peak  inlayed  in  the  huge  sapphire  of  the 
sky. 

On  one  side  of  the  bridge,  the  Alcázar  garden  dis- 
played its  tall,  dark  cypresses,  and  its  short  shrub-like 
orange  trees;  then  the  Roman  Wall,  grey,  spotted  with 
the  dusty  green  of  parasite  weeds,  continued  toward  the 
left,  and  stretched  on,  cut  here  and  there  by  cubes  of 
rock,  as  far  as  the  Cementerio  de  la  Salud. 

On  the  other  side,  the  houses  of  the  Calle  de  la  Ribera 
formed  a  semi-circle,  following  the  horseshoe  bend  of 
the  river,  which  flowed  on  as  though  trying  to  under- 
mine the  town. 

These  houses,  which  were  reflected  in  the  surface  of 
the  river — a  serpent  of  ever  changing  colour — ^were 
small,  grey,  and  crooked.  Upon  their  walls,  which  were 
continuously  calcined  by  the  sun,  grew  dark-coloured 
ivy ;  between  their  garden  walls  blossomed  prickly  pears 
with  huge  intertwined  and  pulpy  leaves ;  and  from  their 
patios  and  corrals  peeped  the  cup-shaped  tops  of  cjrpress 
trees  and  the  branches  of  silver-leafed  fig  trees. 

Their  roofs  were  grey,  dirty,  heaped  one  above  the 
other ;  with  azoteas,  look-outs,  and  little  towers ;  a  growth 
of  hedge  mustard  converted  some  of  them  into  green 
meadows. 

Beyond  these  houses  the  broken  line  of  the  roofs  of 
the  town  was  silhouetted  against  the  crystal  blue  sky. 


308         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

This  line  was  interrupted  here  and  there  by  a  tower, 
and  reached  as  far  as  the  river,  where  it  ended  in  a  few 
blue  and  rose  houses  near  the  Martos  mill. 

Some  bell  or  other  was  clanging  almost  continuously. 
Quentin  listened  to  them  sleepily  and  drowsily,  watch- 
ing the  hazy  sky,  and  the  river  of  ever-changing  colour. 

Pacheco  's  house  had  a  room  with  a  window  that  looked 
out  on  the  other  side :  upon  a  little  square  where  a  few 
tramps  peacefully  sunned  themselves. 

Among  them  was  one  who  interested  Quentin.  This 
fellow  wore  a  red  kerchief  on  his  head,  side-burns  that 
reached  the  tips  of  his  ears,  and  a  large,  ragged  sash. 
He  used  to  sit  on  a  stone  bench,  and,  his  face  resting  in 
his  hand,  would  study  the  actions  and  movements  of  a 
cock  with  flame-coloured  plumage. 

This  observer  of  the  cock  was  at  the  same  time  the 
pedagogue  of  the  feathered  biped,  which  must  have  had 
its  serious  difficulties,  to  judge  by  the  reflective  attitude 
which  the  man  struck  at  times. 

Quentin  listened  to  what  they  said  in  the  meetings 
that  went  on  about  him. 

How  far  away  his  thoughts  were  in  some  instances! 
From  time  to  time.  Pacheco,  or  one  of  the  conspirators 
put  a  question  to  him  which  he  answered  mechanically. 
His  silence  was  taken  for  reflection. 

Quentin  excited  the  bandit's  self-esteem.  He  was 
waiting  for  the  time  when  they  would  get  the  Count  *s 
money  so  that  he  could  take  his  share  and  skip  off  to 
Madrid.  He  did  not  wish  this  intention  of  his  to  be-  \ 
come  known,  so  he  gave  the  bandit  to  understand  that  he 
wanted  the  money  for  revolutionary  purposes  only. 

Every  day  Quentin  played  at  the  Casino  and  lost.  He 
had  bad  luck.    He  had  become  tied  up  with  money- 


PROJECTS  309 


lenders  and  was  signing  I.  0.  U/s  at  eighty  percent, 
with  the  healthy  intention  of  never  paying  them. 

After  conferring  with  all  the  rowdies  that  came  to  see 
him,  Pacheco  consulted  with  Quentin.  The  bandit  had 
romantic  aspirations ;  at  night  he  read  books  which  nar- 
rated the  stories  of  great  battles;  this  stirred  him  up, 
and  made  him  believe  that  he  was  a  man  bom  for  a  great 
purpose. 

''Do  you  know  what  I've  been  thinking?"  Pacheco 
said  one  afternoon  to  Quentin. 

''What?" 

"That  if  I  have  my  people  organized  beforehand  in 
order  to  win  the  battle  of  Alcolea,  I  shall  become  master 
of  the  town. ' ' 

"Don't  be  foolish,"  Quentin  told  him.  "You  aren't 
strong  enough  for  that." 

"No?  You'll  see.  I  have  more  followers  in  the  city 
than  you  think  I  have. ' ' 

"But  you  have  no  arms." 

"Wait  until  the  Count's  money  comes — it  won't  be 
long  now. ' ' 

"Are  you  going  to  oppose  the  troops?" 

"The  troops  will  join  us." 

' '  Then  what  ?     What  are  you  going  to  do  then  ? ' ' 

"If  I  win, — proclaim  the  Republic." 

Quentin  looked  closely  at  Pacheco. 

"The  poor  man,"  he  thought,  "he  has  gone  mad  with 
the  idea  of  greatness." 

At  this  moment  El  Taco,  a  corrupt  individual  who  had 
been  made  Pacheco 's  lieutenant,  came  in  to  say  that  some 
men  were  waiting  for  him  below. 

"I'll  be  back,"  said  the  bandit. 

Quentin  was  left  alone. 


310  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

''That  chap  is  going  to  do  something  foolish,"  he 
murmured,  ''and  the  worst  of  it  is,  he's  going  to  break 
up  my  combination.  I  mustn't  leave  him  alone  for  a 
minute  until  I  get  hold  of  that  money.  Suppose  he 
keeps  it  here,  and  then  they  shoot  him  in  the  street? 
Good-bye  cash !  How  does  one  prove  that  money  belongs 
to  one?  I  could  ask  him  for  a  key  to  this  room,  but  he 
might  get  suspicious,  and  J  don 't  want  him  to  do^  that. 
Let's  have  a  look  at  that  key." 

Quentin  went  to  the  door;  the  key  was  small,  and  the 
lock  new;  doubtless  Pacheco  himself  had  put  it  on. 

"I've  got  to  take  an  impression  of  it,"  said  Quentin 
to  himself. 

The  next  day  he  presented  himself  at  Pacheco  's  house 
with  two  pieces  of  white  wax  in  his  pocket.  He  listened 
to  the  discussions  and  intrigues  of  the  conspirators  as 
usual,  stretched  out  in  his  armchair.  When  he  noticed 
that  they  were  about  to  go,  he  said  to  the  bandit : 

' '  By  the  way,  comrade,  let  me  have  a  little  paper  and 
ink,  I  want  to  do  a  little  writing. ' ' 

"All  right ;  here  you  are.  We're  going  to  El  Cuervo's 
tavern.     We'll  wait  for  you  there." 

Quentin  sat  down  and  made  a  pretence  at  writing,  but 
noticed  that  some  one  had  stayed  behind.  It  was  El 
Taco.  He  went  on  writing  meaningless  words,  but  El 
Taco  still  remained  in  the  room.  Annoyed  and  im- 
patient, Quentin  got  up. 

"  I  've  forgotten  my  tobacco, ' '  he  said ;  "  is  there  a  shop 
near  here?" 

"Yes,  right  near." 

"  I  'm  going  to  buy  a  box. ' ' 

"I'll  bring  you  one.'* 

"Good."    Quentin  produced  a  peseta  and  gave  it  to 


PROJECTS  311 


El  Taco.  The  moment  the  man  had  left  the  room,  he 
kneaded  the  wax  between  his  fingers  until  he  had  soft- 
ened it,  took  out  the  key,  and  made  the  impression.  He 
was  softening  the  other  piece  of  wax,  in  case  the  first 
had  come  out  badly,  when  he  heard  El  Taco's  footsteps 
skipping  up  the  stairs.  Quentin  quickly  inserted  the 
key  in  the  lock  and  sat  down  at  the  table.  He  went  on 
pretending  to  write,  thrust  the  paper  in  the  envelope, 
and  left  the  house.     El  Taco  locked  the  door, 

''Let's  go  to  El  Cuervo's  tavern,"  said  Quentin. 

They  crossed  the  bridge  and  entered  the  tavern. 

There  they  found,  seated  in  a  group,  Cornejo,  now 
recovered  from  his  beating,  Currito  Martin,  Carrahola, 
El  Rano,  two  or  three  unknown  men,  and  a  ferocious  in- 
dividual whom  they  called  El  Ahorcado  (The  Hanged 
Man),  because,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  he  haÜ  been  of- 
ficially hung  by  an  executioner.  This  man  had  a  ter- 
rible history.  Years  ago,  he  had  been  the  proprietor  of 
a  store  near  Despeñaperros.  One  night  a  man,  appar- 
ently wealthy,  came  into  the  store.  El  Ahorcado  and 
his  wife  murdered  the  traveller  to  rob  him,  only  to  dis- 
cover that  their  victim  was  their  own  son,  who  had  gone 
to  America  in  his  childhood,  and  there  enriched  himself. 
Condemned  to  death.  El  Ahorcado  went  to  the  gallows; 
but  the  apparatus  of  the  executioner  failed  to  work  in 
the  orthodox  manner,  and  he  was  pardoned.  He  was 
sent  to  Ceuta  where  he  completed  his  sentence,  and  then 
returned  to  Cordova. 

El  Ahorcado  had  the  names  of  those  in  his  district 
who  were  affiliated  with  Pacheco,  and  he  read  them  by 
placing  one  hand  on  his  throat — the  only  way  in  which 
he  could  emit  sounds. 

''Now  then,  let's  have  the  list,"  said  Pacheco. 


312         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

El  Ahorcado  began  to  read. 

''Argote/' 

''He's  a  good  one:  a  man  with  hair  on  his  chest," 
commented  Currito. 

''Matute,  El  Mochuelo,  Pata  al  Hombro,"  continued 
El  Ahorcado,  "El  Mocarro." 

"He's  got  the  biggest  nose  in  Cordova,"  interrupted 
Currito,  "and  has  to  wipe  it  on  his  muffler,  because 
handkerchiefs  aren't  big  enough." 

Thus  the  list  of  names  went  on,  with  Currito 's  re- 
sponding commentary. 

"ElPenducho." 

"Good  fellow." 

"Cuco  Pavo,  El  Cimborrio." 

' '  There 's  a  man  who  cleans  his  face  with  a  used  stock- 
ing, and  dirties  the  stocking  by  doing  it. '  *  | 

"Malpicones,  Ojancos." 

"He's  a  money-lender  who  loans  at  a  thousand  per- 
cent." 

"Muñequitas,  La  Madamita." 

"They're  from  Benameji." 

"They  just  got  out  of  the  Carraca  prison,"  said  El 
Rano. 

"El  Poyato." 

"Now  we're  coming  to  the  sweepings,"  interrupted 
Currito. 

"Don't  you  believe  it,"  replied  El  Ahorcado,  "El 
Poyato  is  no  frog ;  and  even  if  the  wheat  does  hit  him  in 
the  chest  when  he  walks  through  the  fields,  he  is  a  very 
brave  man." 

"That's  right,"  said  Carrahola,  defending  a  small 
man  from  a  sense  of  comradeship. 


PROJECTS  313 


''Boca  Muerta,"  continued  El  Ahorcado.  ''El  Zur- 
rió, Cantarote,  Once  Dedos." 

' '  That  chap  has  one  arm  longer  than  the  other,  and  an 
extra  finger  on  it, ' '  said  Currito. 

"Ramos  Lechuga." 

"He's  a  great  big  good-for-nothing,"  said  one. 

"And  very  soft  mouthed,"  replied  another. 

"What  about  women?"  asked  Pacheco. 

"They  are  put  down  on  this  other  paper,"  answered 
El  Ahorcado.  "La  Canasta,  La  Bardesa,  La  Ca- 
chumba.  ..." 

"There's  a  fine  bunch  of  old  aunties  for  you,"  said 
Currito  with  a  laugh. 

"La  Cometa,  La  Saltacharcos,  La  Chirivicha.  ..." 

"That's  very  good,"  said  Pacheco.  "Within  three 
days  you  may  come  here  and  get  your  money. '  ^ 

Quentin  understood  by  this  that  the  bandit  was  sure 
of  getting  hold  of  the  money  by  that  time.  He  left  the 
tavern,  and  inquired  at  the  Lodge  for  Diagasio's  hard- 
ware shop.  It  was  in  a  street  near  La  Corredera.  He 
called  on  the  long-handed  individual,  and,  taking  him 
into  a  corner  very  mysteriously,  told  him  what  he 
wanted. 

"I'll  give  you  the  key  tomorrow  in  the  Lodge." 

Quentin  pressed  the  hardware  merchant's  hand,  and 
went  home. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

NIGHT   AND   DAY 

TWO  evenings  later,  Quentin  was  in  the  Café  del 
Recreo.  His  streak  of  bad  luck  at  the  Casino 
continued.  Maria  Lucena  was  talking  to 
Springer:  Quentin  was  smoking,  and  thoughtfully  con- 
templating the  ceiling.  Very  much  bored,  he  rose  to  his 
feet,  with  the  intention  of  going  to  bed. 

In  the  street  he  met  the  clerk,  Diego  Palomares,  who 
was  going  in  the  same  direction. 

''What's  doing.  Palomares?"  he  said. 

''Nothing.     I'm  living  a  dull  and  stupid  life." 

"I  too." 

"You?  What  you  have  done  is  to  understand  life  as 
few  people  can.     While  I  .  .  ." 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"You  are  a  revolutionist,  aren't  you?"  said  Palo- 
mares. "Well,  if  you  ever  take  up  arms  against  the 
rich,  call  on  me.  I'll  go  with  all  my  heart,  even  to  the 
extent  of  making  them  cough  up  their  livers.  There 
are  nothing  but  rich  men  and  poor  men  in  this  world, 
say  what  you  will  of  your  Progressists  and  Moderates. 
Ah!     The  blackguards!" 

"Have  they  done  anything  to  you  at  the  store?" 

"Not  just  now;  but  they  have  been  for  many  years. 
Twenty  years  working  as  if  it  were  my  own  business, 
and  helping  them  to  get  rich ;  they  in  opulence,  and  me 
with  thirty  dollars  a  month.    And  that  man,  just  be- 

314 


NIGHT  AND  DAY  315 

cause  he  saw  me  take  home  a  chicken  to  my  sick  girl, 
said  to  me:  'I  see  that  you  are  living  like  a  prince/ 
Curse  him !  Would  to  God  he  had  sunk  in  the  ocean ! ' ' 
Palomares  had  been  drinking,  and  with  the  excitement 
of  the  alcohol,  he  exposed  the  very  depths  of  his  soul. 

''You  are  terrible,"  said  Quentin. 

''You  think  I'm  a  coward!  No;  I  have  a  wife  and 
three  small  children  .  .  .  and  I'm  already  decrepit  .  .  . 
Believe  me,  we  should  unite  against  them,  and  wish  them 
death.  Yes  sir!  Here's  what  I  say:  the  coachman 
should  overturn  his  master's  carriage,  the  labourer 
should  burn  the  crops,  the  shepherd  should  drive  his 
flock  over  a  precipice,  the  clerk  should  rob  his  employer 
— even  the  wet  nurses  should  poison  their  milk." 

"You're  all  twisted.  Palomares." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"Because  I  thought  you  were  a  sheep,  and  you  are 
almost,  almost  a  wolf. ' ' 

"Why,  there  are  some  days  when  I  would  like  to  set 
fire  to  the  whole  town.  Then  I'd  stay  outside  with  a 
gun  and  shoot  anybody  who  tried  to  escape. ' ' 

"The  tortoise  will  get  there,"  remarked  Quentin. 

He  said  good-bye  to  Palomares,  and  went  home.  As 
he  opened  the  door  and  stepped  into  the  entryway,  he 
heard  some  one  weeping  sadly.  Attracted  by  the  wails, 
he  went  through  the  corridor,  crossed  a  patio,  and  asked 
in  a  loud  voice: 

"What's  the  matter?" 

A  door  opened,  and  a  weeping  woman  with  disheveled 
hair  came  out  with  a  lamp  in  her  hand.  In  a  voice 
choked  with  sobs,  she  told  Quentin  that  her  two-year-old 
son  had  died,  that  her  husband  was  not  in  town,  and 
that  she  had  no  money  with  which  to  buy  a  casket, 


316         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

** Would  you  like  to  see  the  boy,  Señorito?" 

Quentin  entered  a  small  whitewashed  room;  the  boy^s 
body  lay  on  a  mattress  across  the  table. 

**How  much  do  you  need  to  bury  him?"  asked  Quen- 
tin. 

*'A  couple  of  dollars." 

''I'll  see  if  I  have  them.  If  not,  we'll  pawn  some- 
thing from  my  house." 

Quentin  went  back  through  the  patio  followed  by  the 
woman;  and  the  two  climbed  up  to  the  main  floor. 
Quentin  lit  the  lamp,  and  went  through  all  the  drawers. 
He  found  four  dollars  in  Maria  Lucena's  bureau,  and 
gave  them  to  the  woman.  This  done,  he  closed  the  door 
and  got  into  bed.  .  .  .  The  voices  of  Maria  Lucena  and 
her  mother  awakened  him. 

''There  were  four  dollars  here,"  cried  the  actress. 
"Who  took  them?" 

"I  took  them,"  said  Quentin  calmly. 

"Eh?" 

"Yes.  One  of  our  neighbours  was  crying  because 
her  baby  boy  had  died  and  she  could  not  buy  him  a 
casket;  so  I  gave  them  to  her.  I'll  return  them  to  you 
tomorrow. ' ' 

"That's  it.  That's  fine,"  said  the  actress.  "Give 
that  woman  the  money  I  earn." 

"Am  I  not  telling  you  that  I  will  return  them  to 
you?" 

"Little  that  woman  cares  for  her  baby,"  screamed 
Maria. 

"She's  probably  buying  drinks  with  the  money  by 
this  time,"  added  her  mother. 

"Señoras,"  said  Quentin,  sitting  up  in  bed,  "I  find 
you  absolutely  repulsive." 


NIGHT  AND  DAY  317 

''You  are  the  one  who  is  repulsive,"  screeched  the  old 
woman. 

' '  Very  well ;  the  thing  to  do  now  is  to  get  out  of  this 
den  of  harpies ;  they  are  beginning  to  smell. ' ' 

''Well,  son;  get  out,  and  never  come  back,"  cried 
Maria. 

Quentin  dressed  rapidly,  and  put  on  his  boots  and 
his  hat. 

' '  Well ;  give  me  the  key. " 

"I  give  the  key  to  no  one,"  rejoined  the  actress. 

"See  here,  don't  you  exhaust  my  patience,  or  I'll 
give  you  a  thumping." 

When  the  old  woman  heard  this,  thrusting  her  face 
close  to  Quentin 's,  she  began  to  insult  him,  shaking  her 
hands  in  his  face. 

"Rowdy!"  she  said,  "you're  an  indecent  rowdy.  A 
fandango-dancing  rowdy ! ' ' 

"Hush,  ancient  Canidia,"  said  Quentin,  pushing  the 
old  woman  away  from  him,  "and  get  you  gone  to  your 
laboratory. ' ' 

' '  Don 't  you  call  my  mother  names ;  do  you  hear  ? ' ' 

"Nobody  can  call  me  names." 

"Well:  will  you  give  me  the  key  or  won't  you?'* 
asked  Quentin. 

"No." 

Quentin  went  to  the  balcony  window  and  opened  it 
wide.  He  jumped  to  the  other  side  of  the  railing,  hung 
by  his  wrists,  felt  for  the  grated  window  of  the  floor 
below,  and  dropped  to  the  sidewalk. 

"Until — never!"  he  called  from  the  street. 

He  had  blood  on  his  cheek  from  one  of  the  old  woman 's 
scratches.  He  washed  at  a  fountain,  dried  himself  on 
his  handkerchief,  and  went  to  the  Casino.     He  went 


318  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

through  a  door  on  the  right,  and  entered  a  large  salon 
which  was  lined  with  enormous  mirrors. 

A  sleepy  waiter  approached  him. 

''Do  you  wish  something,  Don  Quentin?"  he  asked. 

'  *  Yes ;  put  out  that  light  as  if  there  were  no  one  here. ' ' 

*  *  Are  you  going  to  stay  here  ? '  * 

''Yes." 

"But  that  is  not  allowed." 

"Bah!     What's  the  difference?" 

The  lights  were  put  out,  and,  after  a  little,  Quentin 
fell  asleep  on  the  divan. 

Two  waiters  in  coarse,  white  aprons  awoke  Quentin. 
One  was  placing  the  chairs  upon  the  tables,  and  the 
other  was  cleaning  the  divans  with  a  mop  and  brush. 

"Have  you  been  asleep.  Señorito?"  said  one  of  them 
with  a  laugh. 

"Yes;  what  time  is  it?" 

"Very  early.  Do  you  know  that  there  is  a  great 
hub-bub  in  the  streets  ? " 

"What  is  happening?" 

' '  Pacheco  has  entered  Cordova  with  a  gang  of  toughs, 
and  they  are  all  running  through  these  God-forsaken 
streets  yelling  and  rioting." 

Quentin  jumped  up.  There  was  a  bucket  of  water  on 
the  floor. 

"Is  it  clean?"  he  asked  the  waiters. 

"Yes." 

Quentin  kneeled  on  the  floor  and  ducked  himself 
twice.  The  waiters  laughed,  thinking  that  it  was  all 
from  the  effects  of  a  convivial  evening. 

"Now  my  head  is  clear,"  said  Quentin. 

"I'll  bring  you  a  towel,"  announced  one  of  the  boys. 

Quentin  dried  himself,  and  went  into  the  street. 


NIGHT  AND  DAY  519 

He  walked  rapidly  toward  Las  Tendillas,  where  he 
found  great  excitement,  and  heard  all  sorts  of  comments 
and  gossip.     He  asked  a  man  where  Pacheco  was. 

"He's  near  the  Plaza  de  la  Trinidad  now." 

Quentin  ran  on,  opening  a  path  through  the  crowd 
with  his  elbows. 

''The  man  is  an  idiot,"  he  thought.  ''Could  he  have 
imagined  that  he  was  really  going  to  head  the  Revolu- 
tion?" 

After  a  hard  struggle,  Quentin  could  see  two  horse- 
men riding  at  the  head  of  the  rabble.  One  of  them  was 
Pacheco ;  the  other  was  his  brother. 

"Long  live  Liberty!  Long  live  the  Revolution!" 
shouted  the  bandit,  waving  his  arm. 

The  crowd  echoed  his  cry  with  enthusiasm,  and 
added : 

"Long  live  the  second  Prim!  Long  live  General 
Pacheco!" 

"Why,  the  man  is  crazy,"  murmured  Quentin.  "I 
wonder  if  he 's  got  the  money  yet  1 ' '  Then  he  thought — 
"Suppose  he  has  it  with  him?  He's  fixed  me  if  he 
has." 

Quentin  continued  to  advance,  digging  right  and  left 
with  his  elbows,  in  order  to  get  near  enough  to  speak 
with  Pacheco.  Suddenly  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  shot, 
and  immediately  after,  almost  instantaneously,  another; 
a  bit  of  smoke  came  from  one  of  the  screened  windows  of 
the  Trinidad  barracks. 

The  crowd  drew  back,  terrified;  people  began  to  run 
pell-mell,  and  in  the  alleyways  the  noise  made  by  the 
heels  of  those  who  fled  sounded  like  a  squadron  of  horses 
at  a  gallop.  Quentin  was  forced  to  take  refuge  in  a 
doorway  in  order  to  keep  from  being  trampled.     Several 


320         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

other  persons  also  pushed  their  way  into  the  same  place. 

*  *  What  happened  ? ' '  they  asked  one  another. 

"They  are  beginning  to  shoot,  and  there's  a  great 
rumpus  yonder." 

Another  who  had  just  arrived,  said : 

' '  They  've  killed  Pacheco. ' ' 

**Did  you  see  it?"  asked  Quentin. 

**Si,  Señor.  I  was  going  by  without  knowing  what 
was  up,  when  I  saw  Pacheco  fall.  His  brother  jumped 
from  his  horse,  leaned  over  the  corpse,  and  said,  weeping : 
*He  is  dead.'" 

Quentin  went  into  the  street. 

*'If  that  fellow  had  the  money  in  his  pocket,  there  is 
no  way  of  getting  it.  1 11  have  to  explain  where  it  came 
from  .  .  .  But  if  it  is  still  at  his  house? — Cristo!  I 
mustn't  waste  any  time." 

He  reached  the  Gran  Capitán  in  a  hurry,  and  took 
a  carriage.  "To  the  Mosque,"  he  said,  "and  hurry." 
The  coachman  left  him  at  one  of  the  doors  of  the  cathe- 
dral. 

"Wait  for  me,"  Quentin  instructed  him,  "I  shall  be 
some  time."  He  jumped  from  the  carriage,  went 
through  the  church,  rushed  like  a  cannon  ball  through 
the  Patio  de  los  Naranjos,  went  down  by  the  Tri- 
unfo Column,  crossed  the  bridge,  and  entered  Pacheco 's 
house.  He  took  out  the  key  which  Diagasio,  the  Mason, 
had  made  for  him,  and  opened  the  door. 

The  bed  was  untouched ;  he  looked  through  the  little 
night  stand,  and  found  nothing;  then  he  went  to  the 
table,  took  out  his  penknife  and  removed  the  lock  from 
the  drawer.  Upon  some  books  lay  a  Russian  leather 
pocketbook,  tied  with  a  ribbon.  He  opened  it;  there 
were  the  bills.     He  did  not  count  them. 


NIGHT  AND  DAY  321 

"I  am  the  favourite  of  Chance,"  said  he,  smiling. 

He  closed  the  door,  crossed  the  bridge,  and  threw  the 
key  into  the  river.  The  news  evidently  had  not  reached 
that  part  of  the  city,  for  the  people  were  quiet,  and  there 
were  no  gossiping  groups.  Quentin  went  up  by  the  Tri- 
unfo, again  traversed  the  Patio  de  los  Naranjos,  then  the 
church,  and  got  into  the  carriage. 

' '  To  the  Gran  Capitán, ' '  he  said. 

By  this  time  the  news  was  spread  all  over  the  city ;  the 
old  Vvives  were  shouting  it  to  each  other  from  door  to 
door,  and  from  window  to  window. 

''Where  can  I  leave  this  money  with  safety?"  Quen- 
tin asked  himself. 

Whomever  he  trusted  would  be  apt  to  ask  indiscreet 
questions.  His  stepfather  ?  Impossible.  Palomares,  per- 
haps? But  Palomares,  in  his  indignation  against 
the  rich,  would  be  likely  to  keep  the  money.  Señora 
Patrocinio?  She  would  probably  be  angry  at  him. 
Springer  ?     He  was  the  best. 

''I'll  go  to  his  house,"  he  thought;  and  he  gave  the 
coachman  the  address  of  the  Swiss  watchmaker. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE   CITY   OF   THE   DISCREET 

SPRINGER  was  somewhat  taken  aback  when  he  saw 
Quentin  enter  his  store,  and  he  rose  to  his  feet 
and  said,  turning  a  trifle  pale : 

* '  I  can  imagine  why  you  have  come. ' ' 

''You  can?  It  would  be  rather  hard.  But  first  do 
me  the  favour  of  giving  me  a  few  pesetas  with  which  to 
pay  the  coachman. ' ' 

The  Swiss  opened  a  drawer  and  gave  him  two  dollars. 
Quentin  paid  the  coachman,  and  returned  to  the  watch 
store. 

' '  Boy, ' '  he  said  to  his  friend, ' '  I  came  here  because  you 
are  the  only  trustworthy  person  I  know. ' ' 

* '  Thanks, ' '  said  Springer  sourly. 

''I  would  like  you  to  keep  a  large  amount  of  money 
for  me,"  continued  Quentin  as  he  held  out  the  pocket- 
book. 

''How  much  is  it?'' 

"I  don't  know;  I'm  going  to  see." 

Quentin  opened  the  purse  and  began  counting  the 
bills. 

"Before  you  place  this  trust  in  me,"  said  the  Swiss 
with  the  air  of  a  man  making  a  violent  decision,  ' '  I  have 
something  to  tell  you — as  a  loyal  friend.  Something 
that  may  annoy  you. ' ' 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Quentin,  fearing  that  the  low 

322 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET         SS3 

trick  he  had  played  on  the  Count  of  Doña  Mencia  had 
become  known  in  the  city. 

* '  Maria  Lucena  and  I  have  come  to  an  understanding 
— I  cannot  deceive  a  true  friend  like  you  ..." 

Quentin  gazed  in  astonishment  at  the  Swiss,  and  seeing 
him  so  affected,  felt  like  bursting  into  laughter;  but 
laughter  seemed  improper  under  the  circumstances. 

''I'm  glad  you  told  me,"  he  said  gravely.  *'I  was 
thinking  of  leaving  Cordova,  and  now,  knowing  this,  I 
shall  go  as  soon  as  possible." 

"And  it  will  not  cool  your  friendship  ? " 

''Not  in  the  least." 

Springer  affectionately  pressed  his  friend's  hand. 

"Well,  will  you  keep  this  money  for  me?" 

' '  Yes ;  give  it  to  me. ' ' 

The  Swiss  placed  the  bills  in  an  envelope. 

"What  must  I  do  with  it?" 

"I'll  let  you  know;  I  shall  probably  tell  you  to  send 
it  to  me  in  Madrid  in  various  quantities. ' ' 

"Good;  it  shall  be  done." 

The  Swiss  climbed  the  spiral  staircase  that  went  from 
the  back  room  to  the  main  floor,  and  returned  presently, 
saying : 

"  I  've  put  it  away. ' ' 

They  were  chatting  together,  when  Springer's  father 
entered  hurriedly. 

"There's  a  riot  in  the  town,"  he  announced  from  the 
door. 

' '  Is  there  ?     What  is  going  on  ? " 

' '  They  have  killed  a  bandit  .  .  .  Pacheco,  I  think  they 
told  me  his  name  was. ' ' 

"Your  friend.  Did  you  know  it?"  the  Swiss  asked 
Quentin. 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

''No,"  he  answered  calmly.  "He  must  have  done 
something  foolish. ' ' 

''Let's  ask  about  it  in  the  streets." 

The  father  and  son  and  Quentin  went  out  to  Las  Ten- 
dillas.  They  passed  from  group  to  group,  listening  to 
the  comments,  and  at  one  of  them  where  there  seemed  to 
be  a  well-informed  gentleman,  they  stopped. 

"How  did  his  death  occur?"  asked  Springer's  father. 

"Well,  like  this.  Pacheco  entered  by  the  bridge,  and 
crossed  the  city  till  he  reached  the  barracks  in  the  Plaza 
de  la  Trinidad,  where  it  seems  that  the  General,  when  he 
noticed  the  riot  and  uproar,  and  when  he  heard  them 
shout  '  Long  live  General  Pacheco ! '  asked :  '  Who  is  that 
fellow  they  call  General?  I'm  the  only  General  here.' 
'It's  Pacheco,'  a  lieutenant  answered.  'The  people  are 
calling  him  a  General  of  Liberty. ' — '  The  bandit  ? ' — '  Si, 
Señor.'  Then  the  General,  seeing  that  the  crowd  was 
coming  toward  the  barracks,  ordered  two  soldiers  to 
take  their  posts  with  their  guns  sticking  through  the 
cracks  in  the  shutters.  When  Pacheco  came  opposite  the 
barracks,  he  shouted  several  times:  'Long  live  Liberty! 
Long  live  the  Revolution ! '  instantly  two  shots  rang  out, 
and  the  man  fell  from  his  horse,  dead." 

All  listened  to  the  story,  and  after  it  was  finished  there 
was  a  series  of  remarks. 

' '  That  was  treachery, ' '  said  one. 

"A  trap  they  set  for  him." 

"They've  wickedly  deceived  that  man." 

"Deceived  him?  Why?"  Springer's  father  asked  of 
a  man  in  a  blouse  who  had  just  made  the  assertion. 

"Because  they  had  promised  him  a  pardon,"  replied 
he  of  the  blouse.     '  *  Everybody  knows  that. ' ' 

"But  promising  a  pardon,  and  entering  the  city  the 


¥ 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

way  he  did — like  a  conqueror — are  two  very  different 
things,"  rejoined  the  watchmaker. 

'  *  This  is  going  to  make  a  big  noise, ' '  replied  the  man. 

They  returned  to  the  watchmaker's  shop,  and  as  the 
other  stores  were  closed,  the  Swiss  closed  his  also. 

''Would  you  like  to  dine  with  us?"  said  Springer  to 
Quentin. 

''Indeed  I  should!" 

They  climbed  the  spiral  stairs  to  the  floor  above,  and 
Springer  presented  Quentin  to  his  mother;  a  pleasant 
woman,  thin,  smiling,  very  active  and  vivacious. 

They  dined ;  after  dinner,  the  three  men  lit  their  pipes, 
and  Springer's  father  spoke  enthusiastically  of  his  home 
town. 

"My  town  is  a  great  place,"  he  said  to  Quentin  with  a 
smile. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Zurich.     Ah!  If  you  could  see  it!  .  .  .  ." 

' '  But  father,  he  has  seen  Paris  and  London. ' ' 

"  Oh  !  That  makes  no  difference.  I  've  known  many 
people  from  Paris  and  Vienna  who  were  astounded  when 
they  saw  Zurich. ' ' 

Springer's  father  and  mother,  though  they  had  been 
in  Cordova  for  over  thirty  years,  did  not  speak  Spanish 
very  well. 

What  a  difference  there  was  between  that  home,  and 
the  house  where  Quentin  had  lived  with  Maria  Lucena 
and  her  mother !  Here  there  was  no  talk  of  marquises,  or 
counts,  or  actors,  or  toreadors,  or  ponies ;  their  only  sub- 
jects of  conversation  were  work,  improvements  in  indus- 
try, art,  and  music. 

"So  you  are  leaving  us?"  asked  Springer's  father. 
Yes.     This  place  is  dead,"  replied  Quentiti. 


<< 


526         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

''No,  no — not  that,"  replied  the  younger  Springer. 
*'It  isn't  dead;  Cordov  ;is  merely  asleep.  All  the  kings 
have  punished  it.  Its  natural,  its  own  civilization  has 
been  suppressed,  and  they  have  endeavoured  to  substi- 
tute another  for  it.  And  even  to  think  that  a  town  can 
go  on  living  prosperously  with  ideas  contrary  to  its  own, 
and  under  laws  contrary  to  its  customs  and  instincts,  is 
an  outrage. ' ' 

''My  dear  lad,"  rejoined  Quentin  rather  cynically,  "I 
don't  care  about  the  cause  for  it  all.  What  I  know  is 
that  one  cannot  live  here. ' ' 

"That  is  the  truth,"  asserted  the  older  Springer. 
' '  One  can  attempt  nothing  new  here,  because  it  will  turn 
out  badly.  No  one  does  his  part  in  throwing  off  this 
inertia.     No  one  works." 

"Don't  say  that,  father." 

"What  your  father  says,  is  right,"  continued  Quen- 
tin; "and  not  only  is  that  true,  but  the  activity  of  the 
few  who  do  work,  annoys  and  often  offends  those  who  do 
nothing.  For  instance :  I,  who  have  done  nothing  so  far 
but  live  like  a  rowdy,  have  friends  and  even  admirers. 
If  I  had  devoted  myself  to  work,  everybody  would  look 
upon  me  as  a  good-for-nothing,  and  from  time  to  time, 
secretly,  they  would  place  a  stone  in  my  way  for  me  to 
stumble  over." 

"No,  it  would  not  be  a  stone,"  said  Springer,  "it  would 
be  a  grain  of  sand. ' ' 

"Still  more  outrageous,"  rejoined  Quentin. 

"No,"  added  his  friend,  "because  it  would  not  be  done 

with  malice.     These  people,  like  nearly  all  Spaniards, 

{are  living  an  archaic  life.     Every  one  here  is  surrounded 

¡by  an  enormous  cloud  of  difficulties.     The  people  are  all 

dead,  and  their  brains  are  not  working.     Spain  is  a  body 


I 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET         3^7 

suffering  from  anchylosis  of  the  joints;  the  slightest 
movement  causes  great  pain;  consequently,  in  order 
to  progress,  she  will  have  to  proceed  slowly, — not  by 
leaps." 

' '  But  among  all  this  rabble  of  lawyers  and  soldiers  and 
priests  and  pawn-brokers,  do  you  believe  there  is  one 
person  who  is  the  least  bit  sane  ? ' '  asked  Quentin. 

'^I  think  not,"  the  father  broke  in.  ''There  are  no 
elements  of  progress  here;  there  are  no  men  who  are 
pushing  on,  as  there  are  in  my  country. ' ' 

''I  think  there  are,"  replied  his  son;  ''but  those  who 
are,  and  they  stand  alone,  end  by  not  seeing  the  reality 
of  things,  and  even  turn  pernicious.  It  is  as  if  in  our 
shop  here,  we  found  the  wheel  of  a  tower  clock  among 
the  wheels  of  pocket  watches.  It  would  be  no  good  at  all 
to  us ;  it  would  not  be  able  to  fit  in  with  any  other  wheel. 
Take  the  Marquis  of  Adarve,  who  was  a  good  and  intelli- 
gent man ;  well,  now  he  passes  for  a  half-wit,  and  he  is, 
partly — because  as  a  reaction  against  the  others,  he 
reached  the  other  extreme.  He  carries  an  automatic  um- 
brella, a  mechanical  cigar-case,  and  a  lot  of  other  rare 
trifles.     The  people  call  him  a  madman. ' ' 

' '  All  you  have  to  be  here, ' '  said  the  older  Springer, ' '  is 
either  a  farmer  or  a  money-lender." 

"The  vocations  in  which  you  don't  have  to  work," 
Quentin  asserted.  "The  Spaniard's  ideal  is:  to  worM 
like  a  Moor,  and  to  earn  money  like  a  Jew.  That  is  also 
my  ideal,"  he  said  for  his  own  benefit. 

"As  we  were  saying  before,"  added  the  younger 
Springer;  "it  is  an  archaic  life,  directed  by  romantic, 
hidalguesque  ideas  .  .  .  ." 

"All,  no!"  replied  Quentin.  "You  are  absolutely 
wrong  there.     There  is  none  of  your  romance,  nor  of  your 


\ 


I 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

hidalgos ;  it  is  prose,  pure  prose.  There  is  more  romance 
in  the  head  of  one  Englishman,  than  in  the  heads  of  ten 
Spaniards,  especially  if  those  Spaniards  are  Andalusians. 
They  are  very  discreet,  friend  Springer ;  we  are  very  dis- 
creet, if  you  like  that  better.  A  great  deal  of  eloquence, 
a  lot  of  enthusiastic  and  impetuous  talk,  a  great  deal  of 
flourish;  a  superficial  aspect  of  ingenuous  and  candid 
confusion ;  but  back  of  it  all,  a  sure,  straight  line.  Men 
and  women ; — most  discreet.  Believe  me !  There  is  ex- 
altation without,  and  coldness  within. ' ' 

It  was  time  to  work,  and  the  two  Springers  went  down 
to  their  shop. 

' '  Do  you  see  ? "  said  the  Swiss  to  Quentin,  as  he  sat  in 
his  chair  and  fastened  his  lens  to  his  eye,  *' perhaps  you 
are  right  in  what  you  say,  but  I  like  to  think  otherwise. 
I  am  romantic,  and  like  to  imagine  that  I  am  living 
among  hidalgos  and  fine  ladies.  .  .  .  There  you  have 
me — a  poor  Swiss  plebeian.  And  I  am  so  accustomed  to 
it,  that  when  I  go  away  from  Cordova,  I  immediately  feel 
homesick  for  my  shop,  my  books,  and  the  little  concerts 
my  mother  and  I  have  in  which  we  play  Beethoven  and 
Mozart." 

Quentin  gazed  at  Springer  as  at  a  strginge  and  absurd 
being,  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  store.  Sud- 
denly he  paused  before  his  friend. 

* '  Listen, ' '  he  said.  * '  Do  you  think  that  I  could  deceive 
you,  give  you  disloyal  advice  through  interest  or  evil 
passion  ? ' ' 

**No;  what  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

** Don't  compromise  yourself  with  Maria  Lucena." 

^'Why?" 

"Because  she  is  a  perverse  woman." 

** That's  because  you  hate  her." 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET         329 

' '  No ;  I  know  her  because  I  have  lived  with  her  with- 
out the  slightest  feeling  of  affection;  and  even  so  she 
was  more  selfish  and  cold  than  I  was.  She  is  a  woman 
who  thinks  she  has  a  heart  because  she  has  sex.  She 
weeps,  laughs,  appears  to  be  good,  seems  ingenuous :  sex. 
Like  some  lascivious  and  cruel  animal,  in  her  heart  she 
hates  the  male.  If  you  approach  her  candidly,  she  will 
destroy  your  life,  she  will  alienate  you  from  your  father 
and  mother,  she  will  play  with  you  most  cruelly. ' ' 

' '  Do  you  really  believe  that  ? ' '  asked  the  Swiss. 

' '  Yes,  it  is  the  truth,  the  pure  truth.  Now, ' '  Quentin 
added,  "if  you  are  like  a  stone  in  a  ravine,  that  can  only 
fall,  you  will  fall ;  but  if  you  can  defend  yourself,  do  so. 
And  now — farewell ! " 

' '  Farewell,  Quentin ;  I  shall  think  over  what  you  have 
told  me." 

Quentin  put  up  at  one  of  the  inns  on  the  Paseo  del 
Gran  Capitán.  He  intended  to  leave  the  city  as  soon  as 
he  possibly  could. 

Accordingly,  that  night  after  supper,  he  left  the  house 
and  walked  toward  the  station;  but  as  he  crossed  the 
Victoria,  he  noticed  that  four  persons  were  following  him. 
He  returned  quickly,  as  he  did  not  care  to  enter  any  lone- 
some spots  when  followed  by  that  gang,  and  took  refuge 
in  the  inn. 

"Who  could  be  following  him?  Perhaps  it  was  Pa- 
checo 's  brother.  Perhaps  one  of  his  creditors.  He  must 
be  on  his  guard.  His  room  at  the  inn  happened  to  be  in 
an  admirably  strategic  situation.  It  was  on  the  lower 
floor,  and  had  a  grated  window  that  looked  out  upon  the 
Paseo. 

The  next  day  Quentin  was  able  to  prove  that  Pacheco 's 


330         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

friends  were  constantly  watching  the  inn.  Their  num- 
ber was  frequently  augmented  by  the  money-lenders  who 
came  to  ask  for  Quentin. 

In  the  daytime,  he  did  not  mind  going  into  the  street, 
but  when  night  fell,  he  locked  his  room,  and  placed  a 
wardrobe  against  the  door.  Quentin  was  afraid  that  his 
last  adventure  might  result  fatally  for  him. 

*'I've  got  to  get  out  of  here.  There  are  no  two  ways 
about  it ;  and  I  've  got  to  get  out  quietly. ' ' 

One  day  after  the  battle  of  Alcolea,  Quentin  was  being 
followed  and  spied  upon  by  Pacheco 's  men,  when  as  he 
passed  the  City  Hall,  Diagasio  the  hardware  dealer,  who 
was  standing  in  the  doorway,  said : 

''Don  Paco  is  upstairs." 

Quentin  climbed  the  stairs,  slipped  through  an  open 
door,  and  beheld  the  terrible  Don  Paco  surrounded  by 
several  friends,  up  to  his  old  tricks. 

Th^  revolutionist  had  ordered  the  head  porter  to  take 
down  a  portrait  of  Isabella  II,  painted  by  Madrazo,  which 
occupied  the  centre  of  one  wall.  After  heaping  impro- 
prieties and  insults  upon  the  portrayed  lady,  much  to  the 
astonishment  and  stupefaction  of  the  poor  porter,  Don 
Paco  had  a  ferocious  idea ;  an  idea  worthy  of  a  drinker  of 
blood. 

He  produced  a  penknife  from  his  vest  pocket,  and 
handing  it  to  the  porter  and  pointing  to  the  portrait, 
said: 

''Cutoff  her  head.'' 

"I?"  stammered  the  porter. 

*'Yes." 

The  poor  man  trembled  at  the  idea  of  committing  such 
a  profanation. 

"But,  for  God's  sake,  Don  Paco!    I  have  children!" 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

''Cut  off  her  head,"  repeated  the  bold  revolutionist 
contumaciously. 

''See  here,  Don  Paco,  they  say  that  this  portrait  is 
very  well  painted." 

' '  Impossible, ' '  replied  Don  Paco,  with  a  gesture  worthy 
of  Saint- Just.     "It  was  executed  by  a  servile  artist." 

Then  the  porter,  moaning  and  groaning,  buried  the 
penknife  in  the  canvas,  and  split  it  with  a  trembling 
hand. 

At  that  moment  several  persons  entered  the  hall,  among 
them  Paul  Springer. 

"Are  you  playing  surgeon,  Don  Paco?"  asked  the 
Swiss  with  a  mocking  smile. 

' '  Si,  Señor ;  one  must  strike  kings  in  the  head. '  * 

After  cutting  the  canvas,  the  porter  took  the  piece  in 
his  hand,  and  hesitatingly  asked  Don  Paco : 
.     ' '  Now  what  will  I  do  with  it  ? " 

p    *'Take  that  head,"  roared  Don  Paco  in  a  harsh  voice, 
"to  the  President  of  the  Revolutionary  Junta." 

Quentin  looked  at  the  Swiss  and  saw  him  smile  ironi- 
cally. 

"How  do  you  like  this  execution  in  effigy  of  yonder 
chubby  Marie  Antoinette?" 

"Magnificent." 

"Just  as  I  said.    We  are  the  City  of  the  Discreet." 

The  two  friends  bid  each  other  good-bye  with  a  laugh, 
and  Quentin  went  home. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE   DEPARTURE 

OUENTIN  returned  to  the  inn  and  shut  himself 
up  in  his  room.     He  wrote  a  farewell  article  for 
La  Vihora  entitled  ''And  this  is  the  End." 
"When  night  fell,  he  lit  his  lamp  and  sent  for  his  sup- 
per.    He  ate  in  his  room  to  avoid  any  unpleasant  en- 
counters in  the  dining-room. 

With  his  supper,  the  waiter  brought  two  letters.  One, 
by  the  rudely  scrawled  envelope,  he  saw  was  from  Pa- 
checo 's  brother.     It  read  as  follows : 

If  you  do  not  return  the  pocketbook  you  found  in  my  brother's 
house,  you  will  not  leave  Cordova  alive.  Don't  fool  yourself; 
you  will  not  escape.  Every  exit  is  watched.  You  can  leave  the 
money  in  El  Cuervo's  tavern,  where  some  one  will  go  and  get  it. 

A  Friend. 

**Very  good,"  said  Quentin,  '4et's  see  the  Ofther  letter. 
He  opened  it,  and  it  was  still  more  laconic  than  the  first. 

We  know  that  you  have  money,  and  do  not  wish  to  pay.  Be 
careful. 

Vabioüs  Creditors. 

**Well,  sir,"  murmured  Quentin,  **a  whole  conspiracy 
of  bandits  and  money-lenders  is  plotting  against  me." 

It  suited  neither  him  nor  the  others  to  have  the  law 
mixed  up  in  the  affair.  The  cleverest,  the  strongest,  or 
he  who  had  the  most  cunning,  would  gain  the  day. 

Quentin  figured  that  he  possessed  those  qualities  to  a 

332 


THE  DEPARTURE 


Í 


greater  degree  than  his  enemies;  this  thought  calmed 
him  a  little,  but  in  spite  of  it,  he  could  not  sleep  that 
night. 

When  he  got  up,  he  looked,  as  was  his  daily  habit, 
through  the  windows  of  his  room.  Directly  opposite, 
seated  upon  a  bench,  there  were  several  loathsome  indi- 
viduals spying  on  him.  At  that  very  moment  others 
took  their  places.     Evidently  there  was  a  relief. 

After  eating,  Quentin  left  the  inn.  When  he  reached 
the  corner  of  the  Calle  de  Gondomar,  he  looked  cautiously 
behind  him.  Three  men  were  following  him,  though  ap- 
parently unconcerned  with  his  movements.  Quentin 
went  down  the  street  to  Las  Tendillas,  turned  to  the  left, 
entered  the  Casino,  and  sat  down  to  take  his  coffee  near 
a  window  that  looked  out  upon  the  street. 

The  three  individuals  continued  their  espionage. 

Quentin  pretended  not  to  see  them.  He  seized  several 
newspapers ;  and  while  he  appeard  to  be  deeply  engaged 
in  reading  them,  he  was  thinking  up  plans  of  escape  and 
turning  them  over  and  over  in  his  mind.  The  important 
thing  was  to  keep  the  law  from  interfering,  that  there 
might  be  no  scandal. 

Don  Paco,  who  had  come  in  to  take  coffee,  surprised 
him  in  this  caviling.  The  man  was  oozing  joy.  The 
Revolution  was  made,  the  most  glorious,  the  most  humane 
that  the  centuries  had  ever  witnessed.  The  entire  world, 
t^e  French,  the  English,  the  Swiss,  the  Germans; — all 
envied  the  Spaniards.  Spain  was  going  to  be  a  different 
sort  of  country.  Now,  now,  the  great  conquests  of  Prog- 
ress and  Democracy  would  be  realized:  Universal  Suf- 
frage, Freedom  of  Worship,  Freedom  of  Association. 

"And  do  you  believe  that  all  that  will  make  life  any 
better?"  asked  Quentin  coldly. 


S34         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

^^Why,  of  course!"  exclaimed  Don  Paco,  astonished  at 
the  question.  *  *  I  tell  you  that  the  whole  Progressist  pro- 
gram is  to  be  realized ! '  * 

Quentin  smiled  mockingly. 

Don  Paco  continued  his  oration.  His  eternal  sorrow 
was  to  see  that  after  what  he  had  done  for  the  Revolution, 
they  did  not  appreciate  his  true  worth. 

While  the  old  man  discoursed,  Quentin  continued  to 
ruminate  on  his  plans,  and  to  absently  watch  his  pur- 
suers.    Suddenly  an  idea  occurred  to  him. 

*^Well,  good  afternoon,  Don  Paco!"  he  said;  and 
without  another  word,  he  rose  from  his  chair  and  left  the 
room.  He  crossed  the  patio  of  the  Casino,  went  up  a 
stairway,  asked  a  waiter  for  the  key  to  the  terrace,  waited 
for  it  a  moment,  and  went  out  upon  the  azotea.  He 
could  escape  in  that  way,  but  there  was  still  the  danger 
of  his  exit  from  the  city.  .  .  . 

* '  Suppose  I  go  to  El  Cuervo 's  tavern  eind  leave  by  the 
convent  route?"  he  said  to  himself.  "That  would  be 
admirable.  Place  myself  in  the  wolf's  mouth  to  make  my 
escape!  That's  just  what  I'll  do.  I'll  wait  for  it  to 
get  dark  first. ' ' 

He  went  down  to  the  salon  again  and  took  his  place 
by  the  window.  The  espionage  still  continued.  Late 
in  the  afternoon,  Carrahola  and  El  Rano  passed  along  the 
street. 

Quentin  went  to  the  door  of  the  Casino  and  called  to 
Carrahola. 

**Do  you  mind  telling  me  what  this  persecution 
means  ? "  he  said. 

**You  know  better  than  any  one  else,  Don  Quentin," 
answered  Carrahola.  *  *  You  are  wrong  not  to  return  that 
money.  *  * 


THE  DEPARTURE  335 

''Bah!" 

''Si,  Señor;  that's  the  truth.  Everything  is  guarded; 
the  station,  the  roads, — you  won't  leave  Cordova  unless 
you  pay." 

"Really?"  asked  Quentin  apparently  frightened. 

' '  You  hear  me.  So  you  'd  better  hand  over  that  money 
and  not  expose  yourself  to  a  stab  with  a  dagger. ' ' 

' '  The  devil !    You  very  nearly  convince  me. ' ' 

"Doit,  Don  Quentin." 

' '  To  whom  shall  I  hand  the  money  ? ' ' 

"To  Pacheco,  Señor  Jose's  brother.  He  goes  to  El 
Cuervo 's  tavern  every  night  about  eight  o  'clock. ' ' 

"I'll  think  it  over. 

"Don't  stop  to  think,  my  friend!  You  ought  to  take 
that  money  back  right  away." 

"Well,  you  have  persuaded  me.     I'll  go  right  away." 

Quentin  made  his  way  to  the  inn,  followed  by  Carra- 
hola  and  El  Rano.  He  entered  his  room,  closed  the  win- 
dow, and  lit  the  lamp.  He  still  had  in  his  pocket  the 
pocketbook  that  he  had  found  in  Pacheco 's  house.  He 
took  it  out  and  placed  it  on  the  table. 

He  opened  the  wardrobe,  searched  the  drawers,  and 
in  one  of  them  found  some  copy  paper  written  by  a 
child,  and  in  another  a  torn,  and  well-worn  catechism  by 
Father  Ripalda. 

He  took  the  copy  paper  and  the  catechism,  tied  them 
together  with  a  pack-thread,  and  thrust  the  package  into 
the  pocketbook  which  he  tied  up  with  another  bit  of 
thread. 

' '  Very  good, ' '  he  murmured  with  a  smile. 

This  done,  he  put  out  the  light,  thrust  the  purse  into 
his  coat  pocket,  and  left  the  inn.  He  began  to  walk 
rapidly,  as  one  who  has  made  a  quick  decision.    He  made 


B36         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

his  way  to  El  Cuervo's  tavern,  escorted  by  Carrahola 
and  El  Rano. 

He  looked  into  the  office,  and  when  he  saw  El  Cuervo, 
exclaimed  sourly: 

"Hello!" 

''Hello,  Don  Quentin!" 

' '  Is  Pacheco  's  brother  here  ? ' ' 

''No,  Señor." 

"What  time  will  he  come?" 

"Oh,  somewhere  around  eight  o'clock." 

"Good.  I  have  come  to  have  an  understanding  with 
him,  and  I  can't  make  up  my  mind  whether  to  give  him 
the  money  or  a  stab  with  a  dagger.  Look  here,  here 's  the 
pocketbook  he's  looking  for.  Keep  it.  I'm  going  to 
wait  in  here  for  Pacheco,  because  I  have  some  letters  to 
write. ' ' 

' '  Go  right  upstairs. ' ' 

Quentin  and  El  Cuervo  went  upstairs  to  a  room  with  a 
balcony  overlooking  a  patio. 

"I'll  bring  you  some  paper  and  ink  presently,"  said 
the  landlord. 

' '  Good.  Until  Pacheco  comes,  I  do  not  wish  to  be  dis- 
turbed by  any  one.     Do  you  understand  ? '  * 

"Very  good." 

"When  he  comes,  call  me,  and  he  and  I  will  come  to  an 
understanding.  But  he  must  agree  not  to  open  the 
pocketbook  until  I  am  with  him." 

' '  Never  fear. ' ' 

The  innkeeper  went  out  and  left  Quentin  alone  in  the 
room.  He  listened  for  a  moment  and  heard  the  gay 
voices  of  Carrahola  and  El  Rano.  Evidently  they  were 
already  celebrating  their  victory. 

"Come,  there's  no  time  to  be  lost,"  said  Quentin. 


THE  DEPARTURE  337 

Climbing-  to  the  outside  of  the  balcony,  which  was  not 
very  high,  and  clinging  to  a  water  pipe,  he  lowered  him- 
self to  the  patio.  This  he  skirted,  hugging  close  to  the 
wall.  He  pushed  open  the  little  door,  closed  it  noise- 
lessly behind  him,  and  began  slowly  to  climb  the  stairs. 
The  steps  creaked  beneath  his  weight. 

When  Quentin  arrived  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  he  saw 
that  the  door  through  which  he  had  once  passed  with  El 
Cuervo,  was  locked.  It  had  a  transom,  which  he  opened, 
and  with  a  superhuman  effort,  managed  to  squeeze  him- 
self through,  not  without  injuring  one  of  his  feet.  He 
made  a  slight  noise  as  he  jumped  down. 

He  listened  for  a  while  to  see  if  any  one  were  following 
him.     He  heard  nothing.     He  closed  the  transom. 

"Any  one  could  tell  where  I  went  out,"  he  murmured. 

He  lit  a  match  which  he  held  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand 
until  he  found  the  stairway  made  of  beam  ends  sticking 
from  the  wall.  When  he  had  located  it,  he  blew  out  the 
match,  and  climbed  to  the  attic  in  the  dark. 

He  lit  another  match  and  hunted  for  the  aperture 
through  which  he  and  El  Cuervo  had  passed,  but  he  could 
not  find  it.  Looking  more  carefully,  he  saw  that  it  was 
fastened  up  by  some  boards  held  in  place  by  bricks.  He 
tore  these  aside  with  his  nails  one  by  one;  then  he  re- 
moved the  boards,  and  the  hole  appeared. 

Quentin  went  out  on  the  roof.     It  was  still  light. 

' '  Let 's  get  oriented, ' '  he  said  to  himself.  ' '  That 's  the 
garret,  which  is  the  first  place  to  go. ' ' 

Stooping  on  all  fours,  he  slid  along  until  he  reached  it. 
He  paused  to  get  his  bearings  again. 

"Now  I've  got  to  cross  that  azotea  where  we  aban- 
doned Doña  Sinda :  it  must  be  that  one.     Here  goes. ' ' 

He  went  on  his  way,  jumped  the  balustrade  on  one 


3S8         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

side,  then  on  the  other,  went  a  little  further, — and  turned 
the  wrong  way.  He  was  confused,  not  knowing  which 
way  to  go :  whether  to  the  right  or  to  the  left.  It  was 
beginning  to  get  dark,  and  Quentin  went  around  and 
around  fruitlessly,  unable  to  find  the  cornice  along  which 
he  had  passed  with  Pacheco. 

Suddenly  he  heard  the  ding  dong  of  a  bell  and  suppos- 
ing it  to  be  that  of  the  convent,  he  followed  the  direction 
of  the  sound,  climbed  a  ridge  pole,  and  saw  beneath  him 
the  patio  of  a  convent  where  several  nuns  were  walking 
to  and  fro. 

Quentin  climbed  down  the  whole  side  of  a  roof,  found 
the  cornice,  and  reached  the  balcony  on  all  fours.  The 
little  window  was  open,  and  he  jumped  to  the  stairs. 

There  was  a  little  passageway  opposite,  on  one  side  of 
which  was  an  open  door  that  led  into  a  kitchen.  It  was 
probably  the  gardener's  house;  in  the  middle  of  the 
kitchen,  seated  upon  the  ñoor,  was  a  child  playing.  Upon 
the  waU  hung  a  dirty  blouse  and  an  old  hat. 

*  *  At  them ! ' '  cried  Quentin. 

He  entered  the  kitchen,  seized  the  blouse  with  one  hand 
and  the  hat  with  the  other,  and  beat  a  hasty  retreat. 
The  child  was  frightened  and  began  to  cry.  Quentin  de- 
scended the  stairs  into  the  garden,  and  as  no  one  was 
looking,  put  on  the  blouse,  stuck  the  hat  on  his  head,  and 
went  out  into  the  street. 

He  went  through  alley  after  alley  in  the  direction  of 
EI  Matadero  ana  the  Campo  de  San  Antón.  As  night 
fell,  he  was  already  well  on  his  way  to  Madrid. 

Meanwhile  in  El  Cuervo's  tavern,  everything  was  ex- 
citement and  merry  making.     The  news,  divulged  by 


THE  DEPARTURE  S39 

Carrahola,  that  Quentin  was  there  with  the  money,  had 
attracted  all  the  rufifians  who  had  taken  part  in  Pa- 
checo's  chimerical  attempt.  They  thought  they  would 
get  paid  for  their  services,  and  El  Cuervo  trusted  them 
for  wine. 

They  awaited  impatiently  the  arrrival  of  Pacheco, 
who  was  later  than  usual  that  evening.  At  eight-thirty 
he  appeared. 

''Pacheco!  He's  come!"  they  all  shouted  at  once 
when  they  saw  him. 

''"Who?" 

*  *  Quentin.     Here 's  the  pocketbook. ' ' 

''Did  you  let  him  go  without  following  him?"  asked 
the  man,  fearing  a  trick. 

'^Ca!'*  replied  El  Cuervo.  "He's  upstairs.  He  said 
not  to  open  the  pocketbook  until  he  was  with  you. ' ' 

"All  right,"  and  Pacheco  turned  pale.  "Tell  him  I 
am  here." 

Pacheco  knew  from  his  brother  what  kind  of  a  man 
Quentin  was,  and  it  irked  him.  He  expected  a  surprise, 
and  prepared  himself  accordingly. 

El  Cuervo  went  up  to  the  room  where  he  had  left 
Quentin,  and  called  several  times : 

' '  Don  Quentin !     Don  Quentin ! ' ' 

No  one  answered. 

' '  Don  Quentin !     Don  Quentin ! " 
^  The  same  silence. 

El  Cuervo  gently  opened  the  door.  The  bird  had 
flown.    But  where  ? 

In  response  to  El  Cuervo's  cries.  Pacheco,  Carrahola, 
and  El  Taco,  came  hurrying  up  the  stairs. 

"What's  the  matter?"  they  asked. 


340         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

*'He's  not  here.'' 

**  That's  what  I  thought!"  exclaimed  Pacheco. 
"What  can  be  in  the  pocketbook?     Let's  look  at  it." 

They  descended  rapidly,  Pacheco  cut  the  threads, 
opened  the  pocketbook,  and  spilled  upon  the  counter  the 
child's  copy  papers  and  Father  Ripalda's  catechism, 
worn  and  shabby. 

A  cry  of  rage  burst  from  every  throat. 

"We  must  look  for  him,"  said  one,  ''and  make  him 
pay  for  this  joke. " 

They  ran  through  the  whole  house  and  looked  into 
every  corner.     Nothing. 

*'Ah!  .  .  .  Now  I  know  where  he  went,"  said  the 
innkeeper,  "that  way," — and  he  pointed  to  the  door  in 
the  patio.  He  lit  a  lantern  and  examined  the  steps  one 
by  one  to  see  if  there  were  any  tracks  in  the  dust.  There 
was  some  discussion  as  to  whether  the  traces  they  found 
were  Quen tin's  or  not,  but  when  they  saw  the  closed 
door  upstairs,  nearly  all  of  them  were  of  the  opinion 
that  he  could  not  have  passed  that  way. 

"Nevertheless,"  said  El  Cuervo,  "we'll  keep  on  go- 
ing." He  opened  the  door,  climbed  to  the  attic,  and 
saw  the  boards  which  had  been  torn  down  to  allow  free 
passage  to  the  roof. 

"He  escaped  through  here." 

"What  can  we  do?"  asked  Pacheco. 

"A  very  simple  thing,"  replied  El  Cuervo;  "sur- 
round this  whole  block  of  houses.  He  is  probably  wait- 
ing for  it  to  get  dark  before  he  leaves,  so  perhaps  we 
can  catch  him  yet." 

"Good,"  said  Pacheco;  "let's  go  downstairs  right 
away." 

The  idea  seemed  an  admirable  one  to  all  those  who 


THE  DEPARTURE  341 

were  in  the  tavern.  Pacheco  placed  them  on  guard,  and 
told  them  to  warn  the  watchmen. 

With  the  hope  of  pay,  the  whole  gang  of  ruffians  firmly 
stood  their  posts.  Now  and  then  they  returned  to  the 
tavern  for  a  glass. 

Day  dawned,  and  Pacheco 's  men  were  still  walking 
the  streets,  now  hopeful,  now  with  no  hope  at  all. 

The  morning  of  the  following  day  the  rowdies  were 
still  on  guard,  when  two  lancers  came  up  the  street  at 
a  smart  trot  and  drew  rein  before  the  tavern. 

''Is  this  El  Cuervo's  tavern?"  asked  one  of  them. 

''Si,  Señor." 

"Good.     Here's  a  letter." 

The  innkeeper,  his  face  the  picture  of  surprise,  took 
the  missive,  and  as  he  could  not  read,  handed  it  to 
Pacheco,  who  opened  it  and  read : 

Dear  Friends: 

By  the  time  you  receive  this  letter,  I  shall  be  many  leagues 
away.  I  have  left  Cordova  alive,  in  spite  of  your  warnings.  I 
left  no  money  in  the  pocketbook,  but  something  better  for  the 
salvation  ojf  your  souls.     Regards  to  my  dear  friends. 

Q. 

Pacheco  went  white  with  anger. 

"Now  we  can't  do  a  thing,"  he  murmured. 

That  night  in  the  coterie  at  the  Casino,  they  were 
talking  about  Quentin. 

A  gentleman  was  reading  the  farewell  article  that 
Quentin  had  published  in  La  Víbora  under  the  title, 
"And  this  is  the  End." 

"Let's  hear  it,  let's  hear  the  end  of  it,"  said  several. 

The  gentleman  began  to  read  the  ending.  It  went 
like  this: 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Adiós,  Cordova,  City  of  the  Discreet,  Mirror  of  the  Prudent, 
Cross-roads  of  the  Cunning,  Nursery  of  the  Sagacious,  Encyclo- 
pedia of  the  Witty,  Shelter  of  Those  who  Sleep  in  Straw,  Cave 
of  the  Cautious,  Conclave  of  the  Ready-witted,  Sanhedrim  of 
the  Moderate!     Adiós,  Cordova!     And  this  is  the  end. 

* '  Fine ! ' '  said  some  one  with  a  laugh.     * '  The  fact  is, 
Quentin  is  a  very  likable  lad." 
''He'll  prosper."  j 

''Rather!"  ' 

"Some  day  he'll  be  a  deputy." 

"  Or  a  minister. "  | 

"He  really  is  a  most  likable  boy."  * 

And  Escobedo,  he  of  the  black  beard,  who  was  pres- 
ent, added:  | 
"He  who  triumphs  is  always  likable."  ' 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE  END 

SIX  years  after,  on  the  terrace  of  the  Casino  at 
Biarritz,  Quentin  was  listlessly  smoking  a  cigar. 
They  were  playing  La  Filie  de  Madame  Angot, 
and  the  seducing  music  and  the  warm  autumn  air,  made 
him  sleepy. 

Upon  the  table  before  him  was  the  liste  rose  of  an 
hotel;  and  among  the  names  of  dukes  and  marquises 
could  be  seen:  "Quentin  Garcia  Roelas,  Deputy,  Ma- 
drid." This  made  Quentin  smile  as  at  the  memory  of 
a  childish  vanity. 

Quentin 's  face  had  changed,  especially  as  to  expres- 
sion; he  was  no  longer  a  boy;  a  few  wrinkles  furrowed 
his  forehead,  and  crows'  feet  were  beginning  to  appear 
at  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  For  six  years  the  quondam 
dare-devil  had  displayed  a  tireless  activity.  He  went 
from  triumph  to  triumph.  During  Amadeo 's  reign,  he 
had  made  his  father  a  marquis;  he  had  amassed  a  con- 
siderable fortune  by  his  operations  in  the  Bourse;  and 
if  his  political  position  was  not  greater,  it  was  because 
he  was  keeping  quiet,  waiting  for  an  Alphonsist  or 
Carlist  situation. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  his  successes  and  his  triumphs,  his 
heart  was  empty.  He  was  thirty-two  years  old.  He 
could  continue  the  brilliant  career  he  had  won  for 
himself,  could  become  a  minister,  and  enter  aristocratic 

343 


344  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

society;  but  all  this  held  no  enchantment  for  him.  In 
the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  realized  that  he  was  growing 
ill-natured.     Biarritz  bored  him  frightfully. 

*' Perhaps  the  best  thing  for  me  to  do  would  be  to 
take  an  extended  voyage, ' '  he  thought. 

With  this  idea  in  mind  he  got  up  from  his  chair,  left 
the  Casino,  and  went  for  a  walk  along  the  beach.  He 
was  standing  near  the  Place  Bellevue  watching  the  sea, 
when  he  heard  a  voice  that  made  him  tremble. 

It  was  Rafaela,  Rafaela  herself,  with  two  children 
clinging  to  her  hands,  and  another  carried  by  a  nurse 
and  protected  by  a  parasol.     Quentin  went  over  to  her. 

They  greeted  each  other  emotionally. 

Rafaela  was  scarcely  recognizable;  she  had  taken  on 
flesh  and  looked  extremely  healthy ;  she  dressed  very  ele- 
gantly. The  only  thing  that  she  retained  of  her  for- 
mer appearance  was  her  sweet,  gentle  eyes,  clear  and 
blue.     Her  smile  was  now  motherly. 

Rafaela  and  Quentin  talked  for  a  long  time.  She 
told  him  of  her  great  grief  over  the  illness  of  her  chil- 
dren. One  had  died;  fortunately  the  other  two  chil- 
dren had  become  stronger,  thanks  to  the  open  air;  and 
the  little  girl,  the  baby  at  breast,  promised  to  be  very 
strong. 

''And  Remedios?"  asked  Quentin. 

** Remedios!"  exclaimed  Rafaela.  "You  don't  know 
how  provoked  I  am  with  her." 

''Why?" 

"Because  she  has  an  impossible  nature.  She  will 
not  yield  to  anything. ' ' 

"Yes,  even  as  a  child  one  could  see  that  she  had  a 
will  of  her  own." 

**Well,  she  has  a  much  greater  one  now.    She  has 


THE  END  345 


hated  my  husband  and  my  mother-in-law  from  the  very 
first;  and  they  have  done  all  in  their  power  to  please 
her  and  spoil  her  .  .  .  but  no." 

*'She  is  terrible,"  said  Quentin  with  a  smile. 

''We  wanted  to  bring  her  here,  and  then  to  Paris; 
but  at  the  last  minute  she  refused  to  come.  Then,  you 
see,  she  is  twenty-two  years  of  age,  and  most  attractive ; 
she  could  marry  very  easily,  for  she  has  suitors, — rich 
boys  with  titles;  but  she  will  have  none  of  them.     She 

fhas  too  much  heart.  I  tell  her  that  one  cannot  be  like 
that  in  life;  one  must  conceal  one's  antipathies,  and 
moderate  one's  affections,  somewhat.  .  .  .  Doing  as 
Remedios  does  exposes  one  to  much  suffering." 

''And  yet,  isn't  it  almost  better  to  deceive  one's  self 
than  to  find  out  the  truth,  at  the  cost  of  withering  one's 
heart  little  by  little?" 

' '  I  think  it  is  better  to  know  the  truth,  Quentin. ' ' 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  You  are  as  discreet  as 
ever,  Rafaela." 

"No;  I  am  much  more  practical  than  I  was.  But 
you,  too,  have  lost  something." 

"It's  true,"  said  Quentin  with  a  sigh. 

At  this  moment  an  elegantly  dressed  gentleman,  with 
a  white  waistcoat  and  grey  gloves,  presented  himself. 

"Don't  you  know  each  other?  My  husband  .  .  . 
Quentin,  our  relative." 

The  two  men  shook  hands,  and  they  and  Rafaela  sat 
down  upon  a  rock  while  the  children  played  in  the 
sand.  Quentin  was  astonished  at  the  change  in  Juan 
de  Dios.  The  rude,  coarse  lad  had  been  metamorphosed 
into  a  correct  and  polished  gentleman  with  Parisian 
manners.  There  was  no  reminder  of  the  Cordovese 
gawk. 


846         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

Juan  de  Dios  spoke  pleasantly ;  Quentin  could  see  that 
he  was  dominated  by  his  wife,  because  every  minute  or 
two  he  glanced  at  her  as  if  begging  her  approval  of 
what  he  was  saying.  She  encouraged  him  with  a  ges- 
ture, with  a  look,  and  he  continued.  He  spoke  of  the 
situation  into  which  the  Republicans  had  led  Spain,  of 
the  factious  parties  that  were  organizing  on  the  fron- 
tier .  .  . 

Quentin  did  not  listen  to  him,  as  he  was  thinking 
about  Remedios;  that  little  wilful  child,  so  big-hearted, 
who  despised  her  suitors.  In  the  midst  of  their  chat, 
he  asked  Rafaela : 

** Where  is  Remedios  now?" 

**Oii  one  of  our  farms,  near  Montoro.'* 

**I'm  going  to  write  to  her.'* 

**Yes,  do,''  said  Rafaela;  ''you  don't  know  how  happy 
she  would  be.  She  attaches  great  importance  to  those 
matters.  She  thinks  of  you  very  often.  She  has  read 
every  one  of  the  speeches  you  made  in  the  Cortes. ' ' 

' '  Really  ? ' '  asked  Quentin  with  a  laugh. 

*'Yes,  really,"  replied  Juan  de  Dios. 

''What  address  shall  I  put  on  the  letter?" 

"Just  Maillo  Farm,  Montoro." 

Quentin  waited  a  moment  while  he  formulated  a  plan ; 
then  he  exchanged  a  few  phrases  of  farewell  with  Ra- 
faela and  her  husband,  and  went  to  his  hotel.  He  had 
decided  to  take  the  train  and  go  in  search  of  Remedios. 
Why  not  attempt  it?  Perhaps  she  had  thought  about 
him  since  childhood.  Perhaps  that  was  why  she  re- 
jected her  suitors. 

Yes,  he  must  try  it.  He  ordered  his  baggage  packed, 
boarded  the  train,  and  in  a  few  moments  got  off  at  San 
Juan  de  Luz. 


THE  END  347 


** There's  no  sure  way  of  crossing  to  Burgos  without 
getting  into  trouble, ' '  they  told  him  at  the  station. 

"What  can  I  do?" 

''Take  ship  to  Santander,  and  go  from  there  to  Ma- 
drid by  rail." 

He  did  this,  and  the  next  day,  without  stopping,  he 
took  the  train  for  Andalusia. 

He  descended  at  Montoro  in  the  morning,  hired  a 
horse,  asked  the  direction  of  the  Maillo  farm,  and  im- 
mediately left  town. 

It  was  a  foggy  October  day.     It  began  to  sprinkle. 

Eight  years  before  Quentin  had  come  to  that  coun- 
try on  his  return  from  school,  on  a  morning  that  was 
also  drizzly  and  sad. 

What  a  wealth  of  energy  and  life  he  had  spent  since 
then!  True,  he  had  conquered,  and  was  on  the  road 
to  being  a  somebody,  but — what  a  difference  between 
the  triumph  as  he  had  looked  forward  to  it,  and  the 
same  triumph  as  he  looked  back  upon  it!  It  was  best 
not  to  remember,  nor  to  think — but  just  to  hope. 

Ahead  of  him,  along  the  misty  horizon,  he  could  see 
a  line  of  low  convex  hills.  Quentin  had  been  told  that 
he  must  go  toward  them,  and  in  that  direction  he  went 
at  the  slow  pace  of  his  horse.  The  road  wound  in  and 
out,  tracing  curves  in  the  level  country  between  fields  of 
stubble. 

Here  and  there  yokes  of  huge  oxen  tilled  the  dark 
soil ;  magpies  skimmed  along  the  ground ;  and  overhead, 
flocks  of  birds  like  triangles  of  black  dots,  new  screech- 
ing by. 

At  this  point  a  man  mounted  on  a  horse  appeared  in 
the  road.  He  carried  a  long  pike,  with  the  point  up 
and  the  butt  supported  by  his  stirrup,  like  a  lance.     He 


348  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

signalled  Quentin  to  get  to  one  side  of  the  road.  As  he 
did  so,  several  bulls  and  bell-oxen  rushed  past.  Behind 
them  rode  two  garrochistas  or  bull-stickers  on  horse- 
back, each  with  a  pike  held  in  the  middle  and  balanced 
horizontally. 

''The  peace  of  God  be  with  you,  Señores,"  said  Quen- 
tin. 

"Good  morning,  caballero.*^ 

**Am  I  taking  the  right  direction  for  the  Maillo 
farm?" 

**Si,  Señor;  you  are  right." 

** Thanks  very  much." 

Quentin  continued  his  way.  Just  before  he  reached 
the  somewhat  hilly  country,  a  farmhouse  appeared  be- 
fore his  eyes.  He  went  up  to  it,  riding  his  horse  across 
a  red  field  which  had  been  converted  into  a  mud-hole  by 
the  rain. 

''Hey!"  he  shouted. 

An  old  man  appeared  in  the  doorway ;  he  wore  a  pair 
of  black  leather  overalls  adorned  with  white  bands,  and 
fastened  at  the  knee  by  clasps. 

' '  Is  this  the  Maillo  farm  ? ' '  asked  Quentin. 

"No,  Señor.  This  is  the  Las  Palomas  farm,  which  is 
owned  by  the  same  man.  Do  you  see  that  hill  with  the 
trees  on  it?  When  you  pass  that  you  can  see  the 
farm. ' ' 

Quentin  thanked  him  and  urged  on  his  horse.  A 
drizzly  rain  was  falling.  Among  the  distant  trees, 
which  were  yellow  and  nearly  bare  of  leaves,  flowed  a 
bluish  mist. 

From  the  top  of  the  hill  he  could  see  an  enormous 
valley  divided  into  rectangular  fields;  some  still  cov- 
ered with  stubble,  others  black  with  recently  tilled  soil. 


THE  END  349 


and  some  that  were  beginning  to  turn  green.  In  the 
middle  of  it  all,  like  dark  and  barren  islands,  were  small 
hills  covered  with  olive  orchards;  in  the  distance  horses 
were  grazing  in  huge  pastures. 

Quentin  had  stopped  for  a  moment  on  the  top  of  the 
hill,  hesitating,  not  knowing  which  road  to  take,  when 
he  heard  behind  him  a  tinkling  of  bells,  and  then  a 
voice  shouting: 

^'Arre,  Liviano!     Arre,  Eemendao!" 

It  was  a  youth  mounted  on  the  haunches  of  a  donkey, 
with  his  feet  nearly  touching  the  ground,  and  leading 
an  ass  laden  with  a  pannier  by  the  halter. 

''The  Maillo  farm?"  asked  Quentin. 

''Are  you  going  there?     So  am  I." 

The  boy  began  to  talk,  and  chatting  like  old  friends, 
they  reached  the  farm.  It  was  a  huge  place,  with  a  very 
large  fence  that  enclosed  all  the  departments  and  ap- 
paratus of  the  house.  Inside  was  a  chapel  with  a  cross 
and  weather-vane. 

' '  Who  can  tell  me  where  Señorita  Remedios  is  ? "  asked 
Quentin. 

' '  Call  the  manager. ' ' 

The  manager  was  not  in,  and  he  had  to  wait.  At  last 
a  man  of  some  forty  years  came  toward  him;  he  was 
powerfully  built,  and  round-faced.  Learning  Quentin 's 
wishes,  he  pointed  to  a  garden  with  a  little  gate  at  one 
^  end  of  it.  Quentin  knocked,  the  gate  was  opened  to 
him,  and  an  old  woman  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

"Is  Señorita  Remedios  in?" 

"It's  you!"  exclaimed  the  old  woman.  "How  glad 
the  child  will  be!     Come  in,  come  in!" 

' '  You  are  Rafaela  's  nurse,  are  you  not  ? ' '  asked  Quen- 
tin. 


350         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

''Si,  Señor/' 

They  crossed  a  patio  and  entered  an  immense  kitchen 
with  a  cooking-stove  in  one  corner.  Near  the  fire  was 
a  little  old  man  with  white  hair. 

''Don't  you  know  him?"  said  she  who  had  opened  the 
door.  "It  is  Juan,  the  gardener  of  the  other  house. 
Juan ! ' '  she  cried,  ' '  Señorito  Quentin  has  come ! ' ' 

The  old  man  arose  and  seizing  Quentin 's  hand,  held 
it  between  his  for  some  time. 

"I  cannot  see  well.  I'm  getting  blind  and  deaf." 
And  Juan  burst  out  laughing. 

"You  must  be  getting  on  in  years,  ehV* 

"Seventy-five.  Ha!  ha!  Sit  down  here  and  dry 
yourself  a  bit.  The  little  girl  will  be  here  soon.  It's  a 
long  time  since  you  have  seen  her,  isn't  it?" 

"Six  years." 

"Well,  she's  a  beauty!  ...  A  lily!  And  then,  so 
affectionate !  If  you  could  see  her !  She  is  teaching  the 
children  of  all  the  farm  hands  to  read  and  to  sew." 

"So  you  are  here  with  her,  Juan?" 

"Si,  Señor,  always  with  her.  All  my  children  are  on 
the  place.  That's  what  you  ought  to  do.  Señorito: 
come  and  live  here." 

"  If  I  only  could, ' '  sighed  Quentin. 

As  they  were  conversing,  the  door  opened,  and  Reme- 
dios came  running  in. 

Quentin  rose  to  his  feet  and  stared  at  her  in  surprise. 

"It's  Quentin!"  she  cried. 

"That's  who  it  is!" 

"At  last  you  have  come,"  she  added,  and  held  out  her 
hand.  "What  are  you  looking  at  me  like  that  for? 
Have  I  changed  so  very  much?" 

"Yes,  very  much." 


THE  END  351 


She  was  charming  in  her  white  dress,  which  clung  to 
her  graceful  figure  and  well-rounded  hips.  There  was 
a  gracious  smile  on  her  lips,  and  her  black  eyes  were 
shining. 

**You  are  just  the  same,"  she  said. 

*'Yes,  the  same — ^but  older.  I  saw  Rafaela  and  Juan 
de  Dios  in  Biarritz.     They  told  me  you  were  here. ' ' 

**And  you  came  here  immediately?" 

**Yes." 

**Very  well  done.  Let's  go  to  the  dining-room.  I  am 
now  the  mistress  of  the  house. ' ' 

They  went  into  the  dining-room.  It  was  a  large 
whitewashed  room,  with  blue  rafters  in  the  ceiling,  and 
a  large,  unpolished  cabinet  for  the  table-service.  In  the 
centre  was  a  heavy  table  of  oak,  with  a  white  oil-cloth 
cover,  in  the  middle  of  which  was  a  glass  vase  full  of 
flowers.  Near  the  window  was  an  embroidery  frame, 
and  a  small  wicker  basket  full  of  balls  of  coloured  yam. 

''Come,  sit  down,"  said  she.  "They'll  set  the  table 
presently.     "Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  much?" 

' '  You  are  changed,  child ;  but  changed  for  the  better. ' ' 

"Really?" 

' '  Yes,  really ;  you  no  longer  have  that  restless  look. ' ' 

A  young  girl  set  the  table,  and  Remedios  and  Quentin 
sat  down.  Remedios  talked  of  her  life,  a  most  simple 
one. 

"I've  already  heard  that  you  are  giving  lessons  to 
the  children,"  said  Quentin.  "Does  that  entertain 
you?" 

"Very  much.  They  are  all  such  clever  little  crea- 
tures!" 

After  dinner,  the  old  servant  showed  Quentin  to  a 
large  room  with  an  alcove.     He  sat  down  in  an  armchair, 


352  THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

preoccupied.  The  presence  of  Remedios  had  produced  a 
most  unusual  effect  upon  him.  He  felt  attracted  to  her 
as  he  had  never  felt  attracted  to  any  other  woman.  At 
the  same  time  he  was  restrained  by  a  feeling  of  humility ; 
not  because  she  was  an  aristocrat  and  he  wasn't,  nor 
because  she  was  young  and  pretty,  and  he  was  already 
growing  old;  but  because  he  realized  that  she  was  good. 

"If  this  visit  turns  out  well,"  he  thought,  ''how  glad 
I  shall  be  that  I  came !  But  if  it  does  not  turn  out  well, 
my  life  will  be  ruined. ' ' 

Quentin  arose  and  paced  the  room  for  over  an  hour. 
He  gazed  at  the  Carmen  Virgin,  with  her  bead-work 
shawl,  that  stood  upon  the  walnut  dressing-table;  he 
looked  absent-mindedly  at  the  coloured  lithographs  on 
the  wall,  of  which  some  represented  scenes  from  the 
novel ' '  Matilde,  o  las  Cruzadas, ' '  and  others,  scenes  from 
"Paul  et  Virginie." 

"I  must  speak  to  Remedios  immediately,"  he  thought. 

Having  made  up  his  mind,  with  beating  heart  he  went 
to  look  for  her.     She  was  sewing  in  the  dining-room. 

Quentin  seated  himself  and  began  to  talk  on  differ- 
ent subjects. 

"When  are  you  going  to  marry?"  Quentin  suddenly 
asked  her. 

' '  How  do  I  know  ? ' '  replied  Remedios. 

"Rafaela  told  me  that  you  have  refused  many 
suitors. ' ' 

"You  see,  they  want  me  to  marry  a  man,"  she  replied, 
"because  he  has  money  or  a  title.  But  I  don't  wish  to. 
It  makes  no  difference  to  me  whether  he  is  rich  or  poor ; 
what  I  want  is  for  him  to  be  good,  for  him  to  have  a 
blind  trust  in  me,  as  I  shall  have  in  him." 

"And  what  do  you  call  being  good?"  asked  Quentin. 


THE  END  353 


''Being  worthy,  sincere,  incapable  of  treachery,  in- 
capable of  deceit.  .  . 

Quentin  fell  silent,  got  up,  and  returned  to  his  room. 
There  he  spent  the  entire  afternoon  pacing  up  and  down 
like  a  wild  beast  in  a  cage. 

At  supper  he  said  nothing;  nor  could  he  eat,  no  mat- 
ter how  hard  he  tried.  As  he  rose  from  the  table,  he 
said  in  a  voice  choked  with  emotion: 

''Listen,  Remedios." 

' '  What  is  it  ? "  she  asked,  perceiving  his  emotion  with- 
out knowing  the  cause  for  it. 

"I  am  going  away." 

' '  You  are  going,  Quentin  ?     Why  ? ' ' 

"Because  I  am  not  sincere,  nor  am  I  capable  of  self- 
sacrifice  and  abnegation." 

"Aren't  you?" 

"No.  I  am  a  deceiver,  Remedios.  I  have  lied  so 
many  times  that  now  I  do  not  know  when  I  am  lying, 
and  when  I  am  telling  the  truth. ' ' 

' '  And  I  believed  in  you,  Quentin, ' '  she  said  sadly. 

"Now  you  know  me.  I  have  confessed  this  to  no  one 
but  you.  I  cannot  deceive  you.  No;  I  would  deceive 
most  any  one — I  'm  so  used  to  it ! — but  not  you.  Believe 
me,  this  is  a  great  sacrifice  on  my  part." 

"Aren't  you  honest,  Quentin?" 

"Just  enough  so  to  keep  out  of  jail." 

"And  no  more?" 

"No  more.  I  have  been  interested  in  no  one  but  my- 
self.    I  have  been  an  ingrate." 

"Ungrateful  too,  Quentin?" 

"Yes,  that  too.  I  am  self-centred,  a  liar,  a  deceiver 
.  .  .  But  even  so,  Remedios,  there  are  men  who  have 
filthier  souls  than  I. ' ' 


354         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

*'You  hurt  me,  Quentin/' 

**What  would  you?  I  wished  to  be  rich;  and  my 
heart,  along  with  what  few  good  qualities  there  were  in 
it — if  there  were  any — has  gone  on  withering  and  being 
lacerated  by  the  brambles  along  the  road/' 

* '  How  sad  it  must  be  to  live  like  that ! ' ' 

**Pst! — Not  sad  .  .  .  No.  It  is  like  a  magic  lantern, 
understand? — Things  happen;  just  happen,  and  that's 
all." 

''Without  love  or  hate?" 

''Without  anything." 

"Before — when  you  first  met  us,  were  you  a  deceiver 
then?" 

"That  is  when  I  first  began." 

"Adiós,  Remedios.  Believe  that  I  have  made,  with 
this  confession,  a  very  great  sacrifice. — Good-bye!" 
And  Qiientin  held  out  his  hand  to  her.  _ 

She  drew  back. 

"Do  I  frighten  you  still?" 

"No." 

"But  won't  you  give  me  your  hand?" 

"No.    Not  until  you  are  good." 

"And  then?" 

"Then— perhaps." 

Quentin  left  the  room  with  lowered  head. 

He  sat  at  his  window  for  many  hours,  smoking. 

The  night  was  clear,  cool,  and  soft.  The  moon  sil- 
vered the  distant  hills;  a  nightingale  sang  softly  in  the 
darkness.    A  flood  of  thoughts  crowded  Quentin 's  brain. 

"Conscience,"  he  said  to  himself,  "conscience  is  a 
weakness.  What  is  honesty?  Something  mechanical. 
For  a  woman  it  is  the  certainty  of  living  with  the  mate 


THE  END  355 


provided  by  the  Church;  for  a  man,  the  proof  that  the 
money  he  owns  was  won  by  methods  not  included  in 
books.  But  another,  a  higher  honesty,  such  as  that  girl 
wants;  is  it  not  madness  in  a  world  where  no  one  con- 
cerns himself  with  it?  This  girl  has  completely  upset 
me." 

Quentin  felt  a  strong  desire  to  weep  at  the  thought  of 
having  been  so  near  happiness.  He  might  have  deceived 
Remedios  .  .  .  No,  he  could  not  have  deceived  her  .  .  . 
Then  he  would  not  have  been  happy.  As  he  thought, 
the  full  moon  was  climbing  the  heavens ;  its  light,  filtering 
through  the  leaves  of  a  grape-vine,  made  beautiful  little 
lace  patterns  on  the  ground.  He  could  hear  the  con- 
tinuous tinkling  of  the  bells  on  the  goats  and  cows; 
now  and  then  there  came  to  him  the  distant  sound  of 
footsteps  and  voices,  the  whispering  of  the  wind  in  the 
foliage,  the  lowing  of  oxen,  the  neighing  of  horses  and 
the  knocking  of  the  cows'  horns  against  the  corral  fence. 

Suddenly  Quentin  made  up  his  mind.  He  must  go. 
It  was  necessary.  He  left  his  room,  descended  the  stairs 
noiselessly,  and  made  his  way  to  the  stable.  He  lit  a 
lantern,  saddled  his  horse,  put  on  the  bridle,  and  taking 
the  animal  by  the  bit,  led  him  into  the  patio.  He  opened 
the  wooden  gate  and  followed  the  fence  until  he  came  to 
the  road. 

Quentin  mounted  and  remained  for  a  long  time  con- 
templating the  front  of  the  farmhouse,  which  was 
bathed  in  the  moonlight. 

'*Ah,  poor  Quentin,"  he  murmured.  *'Your  sophis- 
try and  cunning  have  been  of  no  avail  here.  Are  you 
not  good?  Then  you  cannot  enter  paradise.  You  are 
not  fighting  brokers  here,  nor  politicians,  nor  insincere 
folk.    But  a  mere  slip  of  a  girl  who  knows  not  the  world 


S56         THE  CITY  OF  THE  DISCREET 

other  than  what  her  heart  tells  her.  She  has  conquered 
you,  you  cannot  enter  paradise." 

The  horse  walked  slowly  along;  Quentin  looked  back. 
A  great  cloud  covered  the  moon;  the  whole  country  lay 
in  darkness. 

Quentin 's  heart  was  heavy  within  him,  and  he  sighed 
deeply.     Then  he  had  a  surprise.     He  was  weeping. 

He  continued  on  his  way. 

And  the  nightingales  went  on  singing  in  the  shadows, 
while  the  moon,  high  in  the  heavens,  bathed  the  country 
in  its  silver  light. 

El  Paular,  June,  1905. 


THE  END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


^^«'60®^ 


KECElveO 


c.rrr'r  !D  DEC  19 '67 '5  PM 


MAR  8    1960 


I   <->  A  tvi   r^  i ,  ^  é- 


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MI\R2  0  1968  8  a 


RECD  LD 


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JUN  1 9  1963 


^^^í'BíXi 


DEC  2  5 1983 


BcCCIR.  0£Cl$ 


DEC  3  6  19f>7 


LD  21A-50m-4,*59 
(At724sl0)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


